Devil, Tower, Star
by I'm All Teeth
Summary: Hermione would do almost anything to win the war against Voldemort, but after reading a book confiscated from the Malfoy estate, she begins to see that there is a price to pay for the magical and brutal help that she receives. Draco Malfoy, proper heir to the terrible magic and badly broken by war himself, is the only one who seems to have any idea of what is haunting her.
1. The Cleverest Witch

**A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. Obviously. **

**Really quick: This isn't meant to be a war story. There's a lot of war in it, but that's not the meat of it, I don't think (I've got it about 85% completely written and am editing the chapters as I go). **

**Let me know if you find typos/grammar/plot errors. Comments are delightful. **

**Does anyone want to beta this thing? **

**Rated M for torture and sexy stuff MUCH LATER. I'll throw up a TW if anything gets graphic in a chapter. ****If you are interested in the story, but are not comfortable with reading these things, send me a message or leave a comment and I will send you an abridged version of the chapter.**

**Devil, Tower, Star  
Chapter 1 - The Cleverest Witch**

"I will not let her speak because I love her, and when you love someone, you do not make them tell war stories. A war story is a black space. On the one side is before and on the other side is after, and what is inside belongs only to the dead."

Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless

* * *

**Monday, September 1st.**

War is not an every-day event. At least not the way that they are doing it. Sometimes, she thinks war is a storm. A tornado or a hurricane because it is enormous and destructive, but also there-and-gone, sudden and quick and painful. Lightning, maybe. A landslide. Sometimes, war is a fire, because it destroys whatever it touches and, in life's great unfairness, chooses not to touch other things at all. She cannot fathom the destruction of it, most of the time. She thinks about countless bodies piled to an uncaring sky and wood splintering across innumerable continents. War, it turns out, is nothing like it is in books. War doesn't communally and evenly destroy everything. Once, on a battlefield, she fell face first into a bush of perfect roses and she was the first one to either notice them or wreck them, despite the blood soaking the dirt around them. Nothing, save for her face crashing into them, damaged the roses in any way.

Hermione Granger is not unharmed. She is still technically a patient at St. Mungo's where she has been since her most recent in-battle fuck-up. They've decided- Kingsley and the others- that she is more a liability than a use in a fight and so she has been released with a keeper to the ministry where she is to go through dark objects to asses them for useful spells. She is putting her massive intellect to use, they tell her, and she says the words over and over again to herself as if they are a prayer. As if repetition will make her pride sting any less.

Brightest witch of her age and she is a panicked idiot in a fight.

The ministry has warehouses full of dark objects, and the auror holds the door open to one of them, motioning for her to go in first while he locks the door behind them. The room itself is massive and still it seems cluttered. There is jewelry she isn't allowed to touch with her bare hands and mirrors covered in thick, dark sheets. Boxes are piled on top of trunks, perilously perched on the tops of dressers and wardobes so tall she could not possibly reach the top of them if she stood on top of the auror's shoulders and stretched as high as she could. There are books stacked like towers in cities, categorized by where they came from and when: _Lestrange Estate, October, 1982. Thornwood Manor, July, 1990. Black Townhouse, October - December, 1985._

She decides to begin her research with the dark arts books, because reading about dark magic isn't as dangerous as touching things she doesn't yet understand. Maybe she'll read about something that will help her go through the rest of the magical objects in this room. She isn't sure she'll be allowed to take anything more dangerous than a bookmark back to St. Mungo's when her hour is up, anyway. Besides, reading is something that she has always done well, even when she can't do anything else.

She runs her fingers over a stack of spines, tracing titles and bindings to decide which one to read first when a dark red cover snags her interest and gives her pause. It is halfway down a stack labeled _Malfoy Manor_, _May 1995_. She does some mental math. Ceized from the Malfoy estate after Lucius Malfoy was sent to Azkaban when they battled in the department of mysteries, only a few floors below where she is standing now. She grins to herself as she imagines what any of those pureblooded bigots would say if they saw her muggleborn hands all over their precious books. As gently as she can, she pulls the book from the shelf.

The cover is the color of dark wine and reminds her of the Gryffindor common room. It is smooth, well-oiled leather and not so thick that she has difficulty pulling it out of the stack, but not so thin that it feels weightless in her hands. No, it is perfect, and it is where she will start. She puts it in her bag.

She has just enough time to collect three other books before her MLE-appointed keeper floos with her back to St. Mungo's where she is still staying until someone can figure out how to close the X-shaped gash across her back, even though she has championed for her own release, saying it hasn't hurt for days and the beds are needed for the really sick and injured, but no one listens.

* * *

**Monday, September 1st. Night.**

She still dreams about that battle- the one that's got her in the hospital while her friends are out there, fighting in her war. When she recalls it, though, it comes in fragments- like a shattered stained glass window with no light behind it. A spell catches her and she is sure that she has been cut in half, just split into pieces from the pain and she screams and Harry is there with her. His eyes, green like a cat's, wide and afraid, are the last things she sees before she passes out from the pain. She generally wakes up screaming and clawing at the agony shooting through her whole body.

This is, in fact, exactly what has just happened. The healer has just finished changing her bandages and bustled out. Hermione is waiting for the Dreamless Sleep potion to take effect, but she is fighting to stay awake without meaning to- she just can't seem to shut her brain off on command anymore.

She dreams about the battle same way that she dreams about Dumbledore's body, lifeless and broken under the tower last spring. Sometimes, she dreams about happy things, like Bill and Fleur's wedding, where she danced with Victor and with Ron until her feet ached and then fell asleep giggling with Ginny about the way Harry had stared at her all night long. From the blush on the younger girl's cheeks, Hermione suspected (and suspects still) that Harry stole a kiss from her that night, too, but she knows Ginny too well to try to pry. When she thinks about it, she is still surprised that this was the same night that Kingsley became minister of magic- Scrimgeour was caught unawares by a pack of death eaters and was killed by Voldemort himself. That was a month ago. Summer is ending. The days are getting shorter. Hermione Granger is stuck in a hospital bed, eyelids growing heavy, while a war is just starting all around the country.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 2nd.**

The healer finally leaves and so she pulls her bag off of the bedside table and rummages until she finds the book she has been wanting to read since she first picked it up this morning.

She examines the cover of the book first. This is always how she does it- for as long as she can remember, anyway- she runs her right index finger up the spine, turns the book in her hands, examining the front cover and then the back, inhaling deeply the smells of cut paper and ink.

This book is, as she first surmised, perfectly smooth red-stained leather. There is no title on the spine or front cover, and the only blemish on the front is a small constellation of what are probably freckles from the original animal. The corners are sharp, and so the book must not be very old. Either that, or it is very well preserved with a book-keeping spell that she really ought to learn. She flips the book into her left hand, wincing slightly as the shift in pressure upsets the scabbing along her spine where the spell remains unhealed. It is covered in several new salves that are supposed to help, but have so far only succeeded making the entire room stink.

The book's back cover is as red and perfect as the front cover, but there is a slight puckering- a flaw in the leather in the right corner and she squints at it. It looks like a bullseye, round, a dark circle and a slightly lighter halo around it. She runs her finger over it. It is raised slightly, like someone tried to flatten it out but was unsuccessful in completely ironing it out of the material. It looks familiar to her, although she can't place why, and her brain takes a moment to piece it together and she drops it onto the bed with a scream that she traps between her lips. It is a nipple. A round, flattened nipple, and she realizes with mounting horror that she has been running her hands lovingly up and down a dark book bound in human skin.

She wants, suddenly, to wash her hands and to never see this book again, but she learned days ago whenever she gets out of bed, the healer on duty is alerted and comes to see if she needs help, and so instead she just takes a deep breath and reminds herself that she has seen bodies before and maybe _not_ panicking this time will keep more bodies from piling up. She knew it was a dark book from the start. She shouldn't be surprised, or feel quite so betrayed by it. So she swallows her fear and picks the book up off of the bed, opens it and tries not to inhale deeply the scents of human-leather and old parchment and when she inhales anyway, she pretends that the scent of parchment isn't so comforting.

The title page is blank, and so is the second page save for five words written in a faded slanted script in the bottom right corner, so tiny that she squints and had to bring her face so close to the page that all she can smell is leather before she can read it.

_for wars you cannot lose._

She swallows tightly, but there is no magic in the words themselves and so she feels braver. All spells must be spoken, she knows, and so there is no harm in just reading.

She turns the page.

The third page is blank, but the fourth page is littered with a strange jumble of latin, greek and runes. She knows some of the words, but has to rummage in her bag for a self-inking quill, a fresh sheet of parchment, and her Advanced Runes dictionary. She runs the feather across her lips as she reads. She turns the page, jots down a translation, picks up her Runes dictionary, and continues well past dawn the next morning.

She stops, finally, shoving everything back into her bag and pretending to be asleep when she can hear the healer bustling next door with a dinnery tray. It isn't against the rules to read books in bed, and they can't even stop her from reading all night, but for some reason, she feels like she ought to keep the book a secret. It's only because it could have dangerous information in it, of course. That's the only reason.

By the next morning, she has read the entire book, cover to cover, and she is still confused. The pages were a mess of different handwritings, like the book was written by dozens of different people, littered with diagrams she couldn't puzzle out- well, except for one, which looked like a series of tetragrams inside of a circle and peppered with runes with the words IN YOUR BLOOD written underneath in what Hermione was willing to bet was dried, brown blood, although the shape itself was in black ink. But the entire book appeared to be just one, long spell. For what, Hermione didn't know. There were aspects of its wandwork that reminded her of the summoning spell she'd helped Harry with in fourth year, but also pieces of dozens of other spells she had learned over the years. Still, given the complicated shape with the disturbing inscription, she suspected that it was a very complicated dark curse. She wonders, briefly, if it were to make something like a horcrux, but no- it didn't call for any sacrifice beyond a bit of her own blood- and so it couldn't be so bad as that.

Suddenly, it dawns on her that she is absolutely exhausted and she falls back against her pillows with a sigh, completely unperturbed by the papers, quills, and books spread across her bed like a strange and jagged quilt.

_22 days, 20 hours, and 7 minutes._

* * *

**Wednesday, September 3rd. **

_22 days, 9 hours, 18 minutes._

She dreams of a dark shadow and, in her dream, she is reciting a spell perfectly, her mouth forming sounds she has never heard before.

"Miss Granger. Miss Granger."

Hermione jerks awake with a start to see her main healer gently moving her parchments and books off of her bed and onto the bedside table.

"Sorry," she mumbles, rubbing the back of her hand across her eyes to clear them. "Good morning."

"It's afternoon, Miss Granger," the healer says, and gives her a gentle smile.

"Oh," she says in reply, and then remembers, _oh yes,_ she was up all night. "Sorry," she repeats.

The healer laughs and begins to lower her blankets. Hermione, who knows that it is time to check on her injuries, is already rolling over. "I'm just sorry I had to wake you," the healer says. "It seemed like you were having a nice dream."

Hermione, who could not remember dreaming about anything at all, knits her brows in confusion, although it is impossible for the healer to see the expression now that Hermione is laying on her stomach. The healer lifts the edge of her hospital gown carefully to look at the curse-wound and, naturally doesn't notice her quizzical expression. So, Hermione vocalizes her confusion with, "what makes you say that?"

"You were talking in your sleep. Where did you learn Latin?"

She doesn't know how to answer because she doesn't know Latin, apart from what she learned when she was at Hogwarts, but it doesn't matter because the healer clicks her tongue and lifts Hermione's robe further up along her spine. The air is cold and she can feel goosepimples rising along the ridge of her exposed backbone and down the lengths of her legs.

"How does this feel Miss Granger?"

There are cool fingers pressed across the top of her back. "It twinges a bit," she says, "but it's really fine, actually." She turns her head, but all she can see is the lifted edge of her robe hanging between her vision and the rest of her body.

"It looks fine, too."

Hermione takes a moment to absorb this information. "What do you mean?" She asks, because she is too smart to believe that she is SUDDENLY BETTER, because even magic isn't good enough for curses like the one she took.

"I'll need to get Healer MacAulay in here to look at this."

* * *

**Friday, September 5th. **

_20 days, 13 hours, 47 minutes._

Hermione is released two days later, and she is feeling better than she has felt in months, even though she still isn't sleeping well. It's like there is a fire in her that she hasn't known since this all started, or even before that, if she thinks about it. She raises her chin like a queen as she walks out of St. Mungo's sandwiched between four Aurors she doesn't know and the flashing of cameras, journalists vying for the EXCLUSIVE STORY! from Hermione Granger- Harry Potter's brilliant (to quote the lying quill of Rita Skeeter) "On and Off Love Interest." One of the Aurors is Harry in Polyjuice potion, Hermione knows, because he is squeezing her fingers so tightly that she would worry they would break if she weren't feeling so strong right now. She stares ownership into the cameras and she is not afraid. Not of the flashing lights. Not of what the papers will write. Not of death eaters. Not of anything.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 9th. **

_16 days, 11 hours, 11 minutes._

She is out of the hospital for four days before the Weasleys will stop stuffing her with food and love and welcome comfort. On the fourth day, she and a new auror head back to the Ministry Warehouse. She returns all four books and takes five more with her to Grimmauld place, where she will be staying, at least for now. The three she read after the first weren't nearly as interesting. One was on a ghastly dark wizard in the sixteenth century who had mastered the art of turning people inside out before eventually turning his wand on himself, proving once and for all that one can turn oneself inside out. The spell was not included in the book, which she was thankful for because it made it that much less likely that the death eaters would know the spell. Another was just a litany of Malfoys through the Ages and after three chapters of "...and Cassius and Persephone Malfoy begot Abraxes Malfoy on the First of October in the year…" it had taken all of her willpower not to chuck it into the fireplace. The last book was a potions book and she had found several useful potions she has copied down onto separate parchment and passed to Kingsley, who has come to the burrow to join in the "Hermione is Out of Mungo's" banquet that Molly Weasley has prepared.

"This is good work, Hermione," Kingsley says, shuffling the pages in his hands. They are in one of the upstairs bedrooms, although Hermione isn't entirely sure which one it is. "Impressive."

"Thank you, sir," she replies, holding her head a little bit higher. There. She is worth it. She is helping. It doesn't matter that she isn't fighting. She is making her mark. She is helping the cause.

"Hermione, are you in here?" Ron opens the door without knocking, but has the decency to look sheepishly between Hermione and the Minister of Magic once he realizes that he is intruding. "Sorry," he mumbles, his ears turning red. "Should I go?"

"No, Ron." The parchment, Hermione realizes, has already been slipped out of sight and Kingsley runs a tired hand over his face. "Congratulations again on your recovery, Hermione." He claps her on the shoulder.

She lets out a long breath through her nose as Kingsley pushes past Ron, who waits for her in the doorway, still looking aprehensive. She and Ron trump down the stairs shoulder-to-shoulder, but not quite touching, and not speaking at all. They are not together now, and that is as much her doing as it is his. The "relationship," if it could even be called that, consisted of a string of awkward kisses and even awkwarder silences. They function best as friends. She is not bitter and she doesn't think he is, either, but they have only been just friends again for a month and a half and so they don't know where to draw the lines anymore. This is what happens, she supposes, when you spend two years half in love with your best friend only to realize that half in love is nowhere near close enough to fully in love. It felt too much like trying to kiss a brother.

But that was more than a month ago.

Ron floos with her to Grimmauld place and brings her trunk up to her room while she sits heavily in a seat by the fire. Harry isn't here now, and Ron doesn't seem to want to spend too much time in awkward silence with her, and so he excuses himself.

She curls in her newly claimed chair with a book and before long, Crookshanks hops into her lap to function as a warm weight wedged where her knees bend back to tuck her feet under herself. She is reading one of her new books, but her mind is drifting. She thinks about the spell in the first book again. She dreams about it every night now. This is, of course, only because it was such a disturbing thing to read, and now it is sitting like a bitter secret in her mouth, waiting to come out. It's not like she's keeping it a secret on purpose or anything- she has tried, at least once a day since she got out of St. Mungo's to tell Harry or even Ron about it, but whenever she brings it up, something urgent and pressing happens or someone calls or something bangs loudly in the other room and when he comes back to let her really start telling him, she cannot find the words to do so.

* * *

**Wednesday, September 10th. **

_15 days, 0 hours, 10 minutes._

Harry comes back bleeding and slumps at the kitchen table.

"It's nothing, Hermione," he calls as she races around the kitchen for _dittany, dittany it was just here_. "I'm really fine. Really."

But she is not hearing it. She holds his head back and droppers the foul smelling potion into the gash across his forehead and thanks whatever god or gods there might be that it is working! When she is done, the only scar on his face is the one that has always been there- the one that has marked him like a holy thumbprint for this war. She would erase this one, too, if she could.

"What happened?" She asks when she has cleared all the blood from the fireplace and door knobs and scrubbed wooden table.

"Malfoy."

The surprise must show on her face because Harry amends. "Lucius Malfoy.

Of course it was Lucius, Hermione was fool to even wonder. Draco Malfoy hasn't been seen for months- not since he helped Luna Lovegood and Hannah Abbott escape from the dungeons at Malfoy Manor in August. Not, of course, that it had done much good. Dolohov had caught up to them before they even reached the wood at the edge of the estate, but Hannah managed to get to the apparition point and back to a safe house. She choked out the story of the would-be escape around blood before dying in Hermione's shaking arms. In retrospect, Hermione isn't be too surprised- Luna and Hannah were never made for war. Malfoy was made of mercury- he slipped through the nails when she had him pinned for dissection, but he is dead now, and so maybe it doesn't matter if she never really figured him out.

"He sent a _sectumsempra_ at me. I blocked it, mostly." He grins sheepishly and ducks his head a bit.

She wrinkles her nose, "You need to be quicker with that, Harry. That's too close," she chides, even though they both know that she has no room to talk, given her track record.

Maybe this, though, is why he doesn't argue with her. He ducks his head again and runs his fingers through his hair. "Yeah, I know."

* * *

**Wedesday, September 17th. **

_8 days, 10 hours, 6 minutes._

Hermione sits in one place and chews her nails to the fingertips whenever Harry leaves the house. Every time he goes out, she is positive that this will be the last time she will see him, and it kills her to watch him go and to not be able to follow. As long as she has known Harry James Potter, she has followed him into danger. Now she _cannot_ follow him because she will be worse than useless to him in a fight- she will be just another thing for him to worry about when he should be trying to save himself.

To keep from going insane, she takes trips to and from the ministry to get new books to read and then she reads the books. In the last week, she has read more books about dark curses than were probably even in the library at Hogwarts. She has learned quite a lot and some of it has already proved to be useful. She is the smartest witch of her age, and her work reflects this.

Hermione Granger is cleverness and books, but she is also bravery and friendship- at least she likes to think that she is and she is sure that she is going mad waiting for Harry to come home. Every time he leaves, she _knows_ that he is going to die today and it will be Kingsley or McGonagall who will come back with a pale face and wide, sad eyes. She should get a medal for sitting in this old, angry house for a whole week- because that is how long she has actually been sitting in here or in a stuffy room at the ministry and she doesn't know the last time that she actually saw real sunlight or grass. No- when she thinks about it, she does: It was eight days ago, at the Burrow. The spell from that book is a song stuck in her head, and this is part of the reason she thinks she is going stir crazy. Maybe she should try to talk to Harry about this when he comes back.

What she actually says to Harry when he slumps through the front foor and flops onto the couch opposite her chair, boots and all, is: "I'm reading a very compelling book right now."

The book she is talking about is currently in her lap, closed around her finger to mark the page and to keep Harry from noticing that she's got a band-aid over her fingertip where she bit it down too far.

"Oh yeah?" he answers mechanically, "That's great, Hermione." Mud flakes off the tip of his boot and onto the carpet. Kreechur will have a fit when he gets back from Bill and Fleur's, where Harry has asked him to help the young couple settle in.

She raises her eyebrows. His eyes are closed. "It's about Flobberworms."

"Fascinating."

"And blast-ended-skrewt mating patterns."

"Wow."

"It gets very graphic."

"That's great, Hermione."

"And then Kingsley stopped by."

"Fascinating."

"He proposed."

"Wow."

"I joined a quidditch team today. I'm now the keeper for the Hollyhead Harpies."

Harry opens his eyes and looks toward her. "You were reading about the Harpies? Why?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, Harry, just go to bed if you're too tired to talk to me."

"Sorry," he rubs his eyes and when he pulls his hands away from his face, his glasses are crooked. "It's just been a long day."

She stands and Crookshanks jumps nimbly to the floor and pads out of the room. "Come one," she sighs, depositing her book on the chair and walking over to where Harry is still slumped. She straightens his glasses in a gesture that is so familiar she doesn't even notice that she is doing it. "I'll make us some tea and you can tell me all about what happened."

* * *

**Friday, September 19th.**

_6 days, 5 hours, 4 minutes._

It takes until Friday for her to finally snap and sneak out to a battle. Like most little wars fought in shadows and side streets, this fight was not planned and she only learns about it when Bill sends a patronus for Harry, asking for backup. She might not have apparated at all if Harry had been there, but he was out hunting horcruxes with Ron (something _else _she isn't allowed to do anymore- never mind that she knows more about camping than either of them), following a lead cobbled together from pilfered Death Eater memories and that strange connection Harry has with Voldemort.

She couldn't let a battle be lost because the boys were off fighting elsewhere and Harry would never forgive himself if people died and he wasn't there, so Hermione went instead. She turned on the spot and now she is in Godric's Hollow, whirling sideways as a firework of yellow light shoots past her ear close enough that she can smell her hair burning.

Her heart hammers like a war drum in her chest and she is not afraid. She was born for war and while still turning, she fires a _stupefy_ in the direction the _crucio_ came from, but there is something wicked railing in her brain. Why isn't she using harsher magic? There is a curse on her tongue that she knows will turn the war in her favor. It's right there on the back of her mouth like a fat toad, ready to leave. The other side will not hesitate to use unforgivables so why shouldn't she? And she has something even better than anything they might know.

But no- she is not like the death eaters. She is Hermione Granger, and wherever that thick line has been drawn between good and evil, she is firmly on one side and they are on the other. She does not use unforgivable curses because she is not a murderer or an unforgivable person. War is not a means to prove herself a wicked beast and she knows already what kind of monsters war creates and she will not be a casualty in a moral or physical sense. She will survive and she will do it with her hands clean.

They win the battle and she only knows when she finds herself, panting for breath, caked in sweat and dust from shattered sidewalks, surrounded by cloaked figures all bearing the lightning-blue phoenix on the right shoulder like a little neon "DONT CURSE ME" sign. She has never been left after a battle before and so this is her first real victory. She doesn't know what she was expecting- a whooping cheer, maybe, like after a quidditch match- but all that happens is Bill gives her a shallow nod and the six or so who haven't already left for home or been portkeyed to St. Mungo's all approach the dark bodies on the ground, looking for signs of life while Robards and Dawlish keep their wands trained on the shadows.

"Let's get moving," growls Dawlish, "They're already dead, but the Death Eaters might be back with backup any second."

"We don't know that they're all dead, sir," says a woman with short dark hair that Hermione hasn't seen before as the two of them turn a body over, but Dawlish either doesn't hear her or pretends not to.

This is the first dead body Hermione has touched since she closed Hannah's eyes in the kitchen of the safe house and she tries not to think about the iron tang of blood that smothered her then and is smothering her now.

"He's still alive!" The woman calls, raising wide eyes and looking desperately around, "Gawain! He's alive!"

"Then stop shouting at me and get him to the hospital, Bulstrode! What are you waiting for- a personalized invitation?" Dawlish's eyes roll toward her but his wand remains trained on the space between two dark and broken buildings. There is a vein bulging in his neck and spit flies when he speaks.

Gawain Robards gives her a nod of dismissal. The girl bites her lip and disapparates with a crack like a whip. Hermione stands, wipes the blood from her hands onto the thighs of her jeans, and moves to the next body.

There are seven more bodies to check. One is a Death Eater who gets ennervated, stunned again, and taken to Azkaban by Dawlish. This surprises Hermione. She'd never thought before about what they would do with the Death Eaters who are left behind after a battle, but it only makes sense, really, to go directly to prison. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Another death eater is taken to St. Mungo's. She recognizes him as Stan Shunpike, and he goes with a two-auror escort and no wand. Another order member is taken to St. Mungo's shortly thereafter. Hermione recognizes him, too. She met him once in a safe house in Scotland and she remembers him ruddy-faced with a big laugh. He is now bleeding fiercely from a gash that takes up most of his left sife and he is a light shade of blue, but still, miraculously, breathing. The other four bodies remaining are all dead- two Death Eaters Hermione doesn't really look at, Dedalus Diggle whose wrinkled face is frozen in a gash of pain or horror Hermione tries not to stare at for too long, and one body that is burned too badly to be identified as definitively human, let alone a known person, without the help of a good healer or coroner. Robards goes by portkey with all four bodies to the coroner's office of St. Mungo's. "I'll let them sort us out." he says before he leaves.

It is strange to think that Robards just had a portkey to a coroner on him, waiting to be activated, and Hermione wonders if he carries portkeys like that wherever he goes. She wonders how many bodies he's brought there himself.

"Thanks," Bill says, and suddenly Hermione realizes that they are the only two left, which is probably why no one is yelling for them to take cover or get out of there anymore.

"No problem," she answers and is proud of how light the words sound. It is perfectly dark- if anyone is home, they are not turning on lights- and so she doubts Bill can see how bad her hair is or that she is already crying.

"You were the one who stunned Rowle, yeah?" he asks. He is half-a-house away from her, so she doesn't know what he looks like, but he sounds tired. His voice is all gravel from shouting spells for twenty minutes.

Still, she is startled. "Yes. How did you know?"

"You were the only one here tonight who still casts stunners. Anyway, good work. Best get home now, yeah? Dawlish was right- I don't know why they haven't come back yet."

* * *

**Sunday, September 21st. **

_4 days, 6 hours, 24 minutes._

There is a battle on Sunday and this time, Harry and Hermione are asked for together. Pride lifts her bones and she holds her nose in the air all through the short argument she and Harry have over her attendance.

"You're not going, Hermione!" He hisses and there is power in his words, but she is not scared of him.

Instead, she draws herself up to her full height and jabs a finger into Harry's sternum. "Don't you dare tell me what to do, Harry James Potter. This is my war as much as it is yours and I will not sit around waiting for you to do all the fighting while I just read books all day."

"But reading is perfectly useful," he tries, shoving her finger away, but it is back in an instant.

"They. Called. Me. Too. Harry," she huffs, jamming her finger into his chest to punctuate every word. "It's not just for you."

He gives her a look that says he is contemplating tying her to a chair before he leaves.

"Don't try to do this alone, Harry," she tries instead, knitting her eyebrows, "Until the very end, right?"

They hold hands and Harry apparates them both. He is better at apparating to a fight than she is. Instead of sending them into the heart of battle, he takes them just past the edge of the fighting. They can hear the boom boom crash of spells snapping across trees but they cannot yet see the glow of the crossfire. It is suddenly just like last year and all she can smell is pine and magic but she is not afraid now like she was then. There is a curse pounding in her head as she reminds herself of Bill's words from Friday, but she is sure that Harry will never let her out of his sight again if she curses anyone seriously and her track record isn't so good that she's willing to gamble with people's lives, so when Henry says "Together?" and they start running towards the fray, she has a stunning spell on her tongue, and not something worse. She will always wonder if this was the right decision.

It is immedaitely obvious that this is a different kind of fight. There are more spells than she has seen fired in one place since school. The colors burn trails across her retinas and although she knows that it would be smart to be afraid, the curse on her tongue makes her braver than she should be. Miraculously, the curses always seem to just miss her and her stunners always find their mark. Because she is so busy succeeding, she doesn't realize that they are losing until someone behind her calls "Go back! Get to the apparition points!" and someone to her left screams. She turns her head just in time to see someone with red hair disappear under a terrific beast made entirely out of green fire and she is running towards the fire-beast without even thinking about it- eight names fumbling against her brain and she is running without looking where she is going and she is running without anything in her mind besides _I have to help Ihavetohelp Ihavetohelphelphelp_ and then she is yanked backwards with such force that she can feel the hairs tearing from her scalp in handfuls before she even hears herself scream, but there is a hand around her throat and a wand in her back and she is clawing and she is biting and there is a pull behind her navel and she screams Harry's name over and over again but it is dark and it is empty and she is alone and everything is so dark that it takes her breath away and, at last, she knows what fear is.


	2. In the Dark

**Chapter Two: In the Dark**

**a/n: **Still not a lot of Draco, but I promise that he will come into the story in next week's installment. On that note, I'm trying to get one chapter edited and posted per week. So if you don't see anything from me by next Wednesday, feel free to send me a (NICE! GENTLE!) reminder to update, because I've probably gotten swallowed by work (which is common) or disheartened by unpleasant messages I've gotten on this site (which is also common).

* * *

**Sunday, September 21st. 4 days, 6 hours, 54 minutes.**

The first thing Hermione does after her captor leaves is fumble around blindly in the dark. She is hunting desperately across the cold, slimy stones for her wand. She is on her hands and knees and she whimpers quietly when her scraped shins slide across stone.

She doesn't remember the Death Eater taking her wand, but she distinctly remembers clawing at him with both hands with all of her strength and this means that she must have dropped it when the Death Eater grabbed her. She calls herself a witch and yet she cannot hang onto her own wand when it really counts.

A jagged sob rips through her chest and out of her mouth and she slams her fist against the stone floor. Her hand slicks off to one side and it is then that Hermione realizes two things: The first is that she must be underground, given the dankness and smell of rot on rocks around her. The second is that she is crying. Not in loud sobs, but the quiet snuffling tears that come with shaking shoulders and insurmountable fear. The stench of rot is so thick in the air that she can taste it on her tongue and she gags one, twice, and spits bile onto the floor.

"I'm sorry," she says out loud to no one in particular, but she knows in her head that she is speaking to Harry- the bravest boy she has ever known. He has walked into death more times than Hermione will ever be able to count, and he has been brave every time and here she is now and she is not as brave as Harry would be- she is afraid of what will become of her here. She is afraid of who will come for her and she is so, so afraid to be tortured to death, which she knows is going to happen. Her breath comes in shorter and shorter gasps and she only notices this when fireworks of color begin to explode in her eyes and her thoughts become blips and start-stops. Like Morse Code, which she used to know fluently.

She is panicking and she knows it. She is twelve again and she is wrapped in Devil's Snare and it is choking her out and _oh god she cannot breathe! She can't breathe. Can't can't can't._ But there is Ron's voice in her head, because it has always been Ron's voice that pulls her back into reality.

_HAVE YOU GONE MAD? _

No. Yes. Maybe. She doesn't know and why is Ron always _yelling at her_ even in her own imagination. She lets out a strangled, hysterical giggle at this thought, and this calms her somehow.

_ARE YOU A WITCH OR NOT? _Not without a wand. No, that's stupid. She was a witch before she got her wand and she is still a witch now. So, yes. Definitely yes. She is a witch. She is a witch because Harry and Ron were her first real friends, apart from her mum and dad. She is a witch because magic is better than being special or different or "academically talented" and because there is something utterly satisfying about knowing that she is capable of creation and destruction like in the books she read when she was little.

Like the stories, only so much better and worse at the same time. Better, because magic is in the details- the small breathtaking things that she still notices, like Professor Flitwick's fireworks or watching a snitch's wings unfurl like the petals on a flower on fast-forward. Worse, too, because she never read about people getting captured and imprisoned in dark cells when one of their best friends might have been on fire.

Oh, god, Ron! Thinking on it now, she is sure, _sure_ that it was Ron. No- she is not sure. She has no true evidence that it was even a Weasely. It could have been anyone and the Weasleys are not the only wizards and witches in England with red hair. There is, actually, a strangely high prevalence of magically-gifted gingers and she isn't really sure if that correlation necessarily implies anything, but the fact remains that it could have been anyone that was under that burning beast and they could still be fine.

She is manually slowing her breath now, counting to five before she exhales with a hand over her pounding heart like she is going to be able to contain it in her chest that way. It is working and she is feeling calmer now, but now that the adrenaline is leaving her, a resigned fear is settling into her bones.

She still cannot see anything- her cell is the perfect black of outer space or a deep ocean floor. The air is close and stale and smells like mold, which means that the walls probably aren't too far away. There is a small voice in the back of her head that tells her to be afraid of moving, just in case there is a deep pit directly in front of her that she cannot see. But no- she reasons- the air would not feel so still if that were the case. If there was anywhere else for the musty air to go, it would be moving, but it isn't moving at all. Everything is completely still. It is cold like a cave, but not as cold as the autumn air had been in Scotland only minutes ago. Still and stale as a tomb, but she tries not to think about that.

"Hello?" She calls, but it is as if the darkness swallows her words as soon as she utters them. Her voice sounds small and muted. "Can anyone hear me?" She tries to be louder this time, but there is no answer.

Giving up on communicating, she crawls forward blindly, running her hands across slime-slicked floors ahead of the rest of her body. After a few minutes of this, her fingers stumble over a different material. It is cloth and her heart picks up in her chest.

"Hello?" she says again, running her hands excitedly up the cloth, but as the heartbeats pass and her fingers trace up the ridge of what feels like it might be a leg and there is no answer, fear like bile rises into her mouth.

There is something under the cloth now, she knows, but she doesn't know what. She presses her fingers along the cloth and there is a swell that she touches gingerly. The flesh collapses like bad fruit under the gentle press of her fingertips and a fresh wave of rot wafts out toward her on the still air. Something wet seeps through the cloth and out over her fingertips before she can pull her hands back. She scuttles backwards until her spine scrapes the far wall and she is retching and she no longer cares if she is being brave because she is trapped in a room with a dead body and she has dead body on her _hands_. Her stomach might be trying to turn itself inside out, but after some time, her stomach has given up on expelling anything that isn't in it anymore and so she curls up on her left side, clutching her knees to her chest.

Perhaps because she is exhausted or perhaps because there is nothing else to do in perfect darkness, she slips off to sleep.

* * *

**Monday, September 22nd. 3 days, 10 hours, 19 minutes.**

When she wakes up, she has no idea how much time has passed. She stares into space without really knowing if her eyes are opened or closed anymore. The cell still smells like rot, only with an undertone of bile where she threw up her breakfast. She wishes she didn't to that, now. She's so hungry. Thirsty, too, and the palms of her hands are still sticky with decomposition fluids.

She was having that dream again- the one where she is casting a spell and there is a shadow watching her in the corner with infinite patience, waiting for her to finish. Cautiously, she considers what could possibly be the worst that could happen if she were to cast it. Assuming, of course, that it would even work without a wand. She's never bothered learning wandless magic, although right now she cannot fathom how she could be so lacking in foresight.

A tiny voice in the back of her mind reminds her that blood magic and a bunch of other old spells don't actually require wandwork, since most of it was older than the introduction of the first wands in about 458 B.C.. In fact, wands in England were even more recent than that, and were only seriously introduced to the British Isles with Ollivander (a great ancestor of the maker of her own wand) who came in with the Romans sometime during the middle ages.

If she ever gets out of this, she is going to get better at nonverbal magic. And then she is going to learn wandless magic and this will never be an issue again. She was so stupid not to consider this beforehand. She kicks herself for not having more forethought, and with nothing but her own discomfort to distract her, her self reprobation lingers much longer than it ought to, and settles on her like a suffocating mass.

Hunger and thirst are twin angry weights in her stomach, but she inhales deeply over the body and the gnawing hunger is gone- replaced by nausea. The thirst remains.

* * *

**Tuesday, September 23rd. 2 days, 14 hours, 26 minutes.**

After another sleep-wake cycle, Hermione is so thirsty that she licks the walls of her cell. They taste like salt and rot, but she is too relieved to feel something slick and wet on her tongue to care about the taste.

* * *

**Wednesday, September 24th. 1 day, 5 hours, 3 minutes.**

She takes three deep breaths and pulls her jumper around her nose and mouth before crouching down beside the body. The skin seems to alternately shrink and split under her fingers, but she continues to probe through the robes, looking for pockets. _Please let there be one. Please oh please_. But she can't hold her breath for that long and she is forced to step back, to take deep breaths and to wipe the sticky, stinking viscera onto the legs of her already filthy jeans before steeling herself for another round. She plunges her hands back into the robes, finds a pocket- empty- and another- also empty. Hope flutters between her ribs for a moment when her fingers close around something hard and she yanks it out into both of her hands, which are shaking now.

It is not a wand.

She runs her hands over the points, the sharp-smooth facets before collapsing against the wall beside the body, crying tears of frustration. It is a rock. She is angry that the body has nothing even remotely useful, and she is angry with herself for crying _again_. Can't she think of anything more _useful_ to do? At least the sobs come without tears at this point. Her body is trying too hard to conserve what little water she's been able to kick off of the walls to waste it on something as useless as weeping. She raises her arm to toss the stone across the cell, and hesitates. She lowers her arm, and pockets the stone instead, just in case. She is eighteen years old. She is in a war. Anything, even a stupid rock, can be a weapon. She wipes angrily at her dry eyes, willing her shoulders to stop shaking.

But days alone in complete darkness with only a corpse for company might make anyone cry, she reasons with herself, and perhaps it is not so bad to cry when there is no one to see it and no one but the dead to hear it.

* * *

**Thursday, September 25th. 0 days, 0 hours, 8 minutes.**

She snaps awake, her breath caught in her chest. At first she isn't sure what prompted her sudden alertness, but just as she is contemplating going back to sleep, she realizes what it is: The air is moving. It is so subtle that, had she not been sitting in dead air for (what she assumes must be) four days, she might not have noticed it at all, but it is there and it is fresh and the fear that has dulled in her chest over the last few days sharpens to a diamond-point.

She stays curled toward the wall, but her hand slips into her jeans pocket and closes around the sharp stone, warm from pressing so close to her thigh. The edges of it press into her palm like a dull knife and this is comforting to her. She is not unarmed and let history remember that when the death eaters came for Hermione Granger, she fought back. When Hannah Abbott returned to them to die in Hermione's arms, the coroner provided a detailed and chilling report of the damage her body had sustained. Hermione would rather go down fighting, all at once, than one piece at a time like Hannah.

Hinges scream as a door swings open somewhere and she can hear male voices somewhere above her and the air smells fresher, somehow, but dangerous in ways she would rather not consider. She clenches the stone harder and she can feel it cutting into her palm, warm blood welling where the point of it has broken skin.

An idea lights up the insides of her mind and her mouth and limbs are working before her brain has done more than have the thought. She is whispering in sharp Latin, the stone in gripped in her left hand as she drags it like a knife down across her right palm.

There are two pairs of feet tromping down distant stairs, but they pause as Hermione's voice raises to a shout. Warm blood drips down her fingers and she can hear it splat onto the ground. Without stopping to think or second-guess herself, she blindly smears the tetragram and circle with her still-bleeding hand onto the slimy stone, filling in runes where she guesses they might go. Magic like pins and needles staccatos across her shoulders and down her fingertips, where it seems to gather in the slice across her palm before slithering out of her along with her blood. A pounding begins behind her head and suddenly she is sure that she will explode from the pain of it, but as soon as it starts, it empties out of her. She gasps the final words of the incantation and slumps back, shaking with exhaustion.

The voices above her are closer now. She can hear someone trip-trip-tripping down a set of unseen stairs and she knows that they are coming for her and she knows, crushingly, that she has failed to save herself, and now she is too spent to even raise the stone against whoever comes.

There is a shifting behind her and, for one horrifying moment, she thinks that the body in the room has come to life again, and her mind flashes instantaneously to zombies that she has seen in movies or the Inferi that Voldemort commands. Then her eyes slide to the farthest corner from where she is and all the air is sucked from her lungs.

There is something there in the dark. It is impossibly large- and it seems to pull the oxygen and even the darkness from the air and it is watching her with hungry, patient eyes, although she cannot see it.

"What's going on down there?" Demands a harsh voice with a snarling accent.

"Sounds like our girl's awake, doesn't it?" Replies a second. _They sound French,_ she thinks absently, and then, _I'm going to die. _Whether by the beast in the darkness or the men on the stairs, she is going to die.

"I like it when they're awake." Says the second man. His words are hungry.

The first chuckles darkly and responds, but Hermione cannot hear him over the shush of her own blood through her veins. Her heart is beating too loudly, she knows it, because the creature is raising one long-fingered hand toward her and the fingers are stretching toward her and-

"Can't see nothing down here. _Lumos!"_

The last thing Hermione sees before the light temporarily blinds her is the creature in the corner, turning its massive, blank face towards the voices. She blinks in the light. It is not overpowering by any stretch- she can make out the outline of stairs through a window about six feet up in one of the walls, which she now figures must actually be a door. Her eyes snap back towards the corner to the creature, but there is nothing there. The creature is gone.

"What the-" says one of the voices.

There is a sharp intake of breath and a series of sharp cracks, like twigs snapping followed by something splashing onto stone. The echo of the splash lasts the longest of all the sounds because it echoes around her cell. Everything goes dark.

Hermione is too afraid to breathe in the silence that follows, but as the minutes stretch by, she begins to wonder if maybe she imagined it. Maybe she's finally gone mad down here in the dark. and now she's seeing things She presses her palm flat against her chest, against her racing heart.

There is a scream in the silence. One long, endless scream muffled by walls and distance. Something crashes. There is a _bang!_ of a spell firing and then another and another. The walls around her shake. Then there is a silence that stretches on for so long Hermione realizes her legs are cramped from crouching on the floor. She shifts onto her bottom, flexing her toes. There is a tap, tap, tap down the flight of stairs, and the light returns, flooding fully into the cell. She licks her lips but cannot force herself to move.

The door swings open soundlessly, revealing a stone hallway. In the center of the hallway, laying flat on the damp flagstones, there is a wand. The tip is radiating the bright golden light of a strong lumos, but the wand is on the floor- untouched by any hand. Slowly, Hermione rises from her position on the ground, takes one tentative step forward and then another. She doesn't look behind her. She doesn't have to look back to know that there are hungry eyes upon her, but she knows- without knowing how she knows- that it will not harm her. Not now, at least. She bends down to pick up the wand, hesitating only for a moment, but when her fingers close around it, the spell ends and she is plunged back into darkness. Without sparing a second thought, she turns on the spot, and disapparates with a sharp _crack!_

* * *

**End note: I'm a fucking fairy- I need your applause to live. Reviews are pretty much the written equivalent of applause. **


	3. The Hood

**A/N: **To the anon who sent me the message about adipocere: I LOVE YOU! MAKE AN ACCOUNT OR GIVE ME A NAME THAT I MAY SHOWER YOU WITH PRAISE AND ADORATION. This is probably the single greatest thing that has happened in all of my writing life. True story.

I apologize in advance for the quality of this chapter. II wanted to have it more polished for you guys, but I am so, so tired. When you find errors, let me know in the comments or via private message and I'll fix the when I have time. I really just wanted you to get something this week, because I said I would. Also, I think I have the flu. Pity me!

* * *

**Chapter 3: The Hood**

**Thursday, September 25th**

The room around her is a riot of noise and color. Red light fireworks across her vision.

"_Stupefy!"_ someone yells and she is frozen to the spot before she can even tell them _It's Me! Hermione!_ and her eyes roll back into her head and she falls backwards and the last thing she sees before blackness swallows her is the monster in the corner, and she watches her fall reflected in its pebble eyes, toppling, toppling, gone.

_Enervate_! And she gasps in a breath like she was just winded.

"When we left Harry's Aunt's and Uncle's, what was the first thing you said once we were airborne?"

Hermione is still gasping, but she knows she isn't in the sitting room of Grimmauld place anymore, where she meant to be. For a horrifying second, she thinks she's back in the black room with the body and her monster for company, but there is wandlight all around her and Kingsley is shaking her shoulder so hard that her teeth rattle. She is pretty sure that she is in the wine cellar of Grimmauld Place, based on the smells of rot and rat droppings.

"Answer me!" He says and his voice is low, but laced with menace.

"I-I-Hold on let me think. I said 'I was hoping I wouldn't have to ride one of these again.'"

Kingsley stops shaking her, his hand drops from her shoulder, and eyes her warily, like she is a dog who might bite. She reaches into her back pocket for her wand, but, of course, it isn't there. Kingsley stands, but fear moves her hands for her. They dart out and grab the collar of his robe. "Wait," she gasps. "What did you tell me when I gave you my notes on the book at the Burrow the other week?"

The Minister looks annoyed, and then he looks impressed and then he looks amused, all in very short order. "This is good work, Hermione," he repeats, "Impressive."

She nods once and lets him go, slumping back against a wooden barrel.

He turns to the lights around them, he says, "It's her. Go ahead."

Kingsley takes a step backwards, and all of a sudden she is swarmed by warm bodies and people are saying her name and they are talking all at once and she is so _tired_ and so glad to be back that she just sits there and accepts all of the love that Harry, Ginny, Ron, and Mrs. Weasley are heaping on her and she weeps silently because she is just so _happy_ to be where she is and everything else just feels like a bad dream.

* * *

**Thursday, September 26th. Late at night.**

"What happened to you, Hermione?" Asks Kingsley. They are at the dark-stained dining room table and Kreacher has left an enormous plate of shepherds pie hot in front of her. The spoon hardly paused in its track from the plate to her mouth to the plate to her mouth and on and on. She is so hungry. She had forgotten how wonderful food is. "One of the Death Eaters grabbed you, disapparated, and then no news for five days."

She relates the story of her capture and the body in the dark, dark cell as best as she can between mouthfuls.

"You should slow down if you haven't eaten in a few days," suggests Kingsley, but he is too smart to try to take the plate away from her. He looks tired, she sees now, but she is too busy shoving food into her mouth to really care too much yet.

Other than this, he doesn't interrupt her until she finishes. "And then I disapparated back here because I couldn't think of anywhere else to go and I was worried that someone would come to check on me again."

"But how did you get the wand, Hermione?"

Mrs. Weasley has already chased Harry, Ron, and Ginny out of the dining room, since the minister wanted to speak to Hermione alone. She scrapes the plate with the spoon.

"What do you mean? I just told you. I-"

"You said that there was a rock in the robes of the decomposing body and that you used 'the wand' to apparate back here. I don't quite understand what happened, though. Was there a wand in the robes, too? Is that how you escaped?"

She tilts her head to one side, her eyebrows knitting together. Kreacher magics the plate off of the table. "May I have more, please, Kreacher?" Hermione's attention is immediately on the elf. The minister waits patiently. The house elf bows so low that his long, drooping nose almost touches the floor and Regulus' locket dangles off of his thin, wrinkled neck as he hobbles back off to the kitchen. He wasn't wearing it when he left for Fleur and Bill's house. She wonders what has changed since she left.

She returns her attention to Kingsley, who is staring intently at her. Like she is a puzzle or like he is meeting her for the first time. "What? No. That's silly. No. It was just a rock in the pocket," she pauses, winces as her stomach clenches suddenly, "But I used the rock to," she swallows heavily, "To do a," she can feel the shepherd's pie starting to claw its way back up her throat but she tries to hang onto it because she is still hungry and she is still afraid that there won't be food next time, "Spell. Got the wand." she chokes out before she doubles over in her seat and the shepherd's pie tumbles out and over the ancient carpet, stinging her tongue and the backs of her teeth.

Her eyes water as she wretches again, painfully heaving the contents of her stomach out of her nose and her mouth.

"Did you cast a wandless summoning spell?"

Hermione gives a noncommittal groan because she has just realized that she has gotten vomit in her hair. Kingsley takes this as an affirmative and she doesn't correct him. She vomits again, but has the wherewithal to hold her hair back from her face.

He rubs her back in small circles, like he is trying to be comforting, but has no experience with the gesture. "Do you still have the rock?" he asks when she seems to have finished.

She nods, but doesn't trust her voice. Her eyes are shut as she wills her insides to settle down. She fishes with shaking fingers into her pocket, but after a moment, she opens her eyes and digs in her other pocket. She stands, digging into her back pockets. "It was here," she says. "I had it. I swear I put it in my pocket before I disapparated."

Kingsely stands, too, casts _scourgify_, and gives her a long and tired look. "You're probably confused. It's been a long few days. Go take a shower. I'll send Kreacher up with some soup, but I've got to Floo the ministry first and owl Remus. We've been looking for you around the clock since you were taken. I need to tell them that you're safe."

* * *

**Friday, September 27th.**

Fred is dead. Fred Weasley. She only finds out when George comes with his parents to see her the day after she gets back. No one thought to tell her because the anguish of loss is still such a fresh wound that everyone who is suffering thinks everyone else knows and is suffering, too, but Hermione is still confused to wake up in a bed and she won't turn the lights off even when she sleeps and so the news hits her like a slap across the face or a fist in the stomach. George is a mirror without a reflection. He doesn't smile and he doesn't blink and Molly Weasley hovers but it's obvious that she doesn't know what to say and so when they sit down to lunch- Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Molly, Arthur, Bill, Fleur, Kingsley, Tonks, and Remus- Hermione sits down next to George at the far end of the table and slips her hand into his. He squeezes it so tight that she thinks her fingers might snap, but she doesn't make him let go.

"It was a fire," Lupin explains after dinner as he and Hermione are clearing the table. She didn't ask, he volunteers the information. "The same day we lost you."

And then Hermione knows who it was who was screaming under the burning beast and regret stings her tongue and eyes. If only she had been faster. She saw him. She knew what was happening. She could have been there. She could have helped.

"Did he suffer?" she asks, because she has always been too curious for her own good.

Lupin sighs and looks much older than he really is, "Yes, I'm afraid. Burning alive is rarely, shall we say, pleasant."

* * *

**Friday, September 27th. Late at night.**

Hermione wakes up in a cold sweat, her heart is pounding in her ears and she is very, very afraid. She is on her back, facing the ceiling and she does not dare to open her eyes. There is a weight on her chest, making it hard to breathe. It is inches from her face and it smells like the memory of rot. It's looking curiously down at her, she knows, its long nails poised above her throat, above the pulse point. She quakes.

Outside her room, there is yelling, but she cannot make out the words. _Please_, she begs silently in her head, _please, someone help me!_ _Help me!_

Tears leak out from between her closed eyes and the creature watches with its flat stare as the tears slide sideways down her face and into her ears.

"You can't just watch her sleep!" Comes Molly's tired voice.

"Why not?" Protests Ron. "You have no idea! No idea what she's been through and I'm not going to leave her alone to deal with whatever messed up shit they did to her! You heard what Kingsley said! Could barely get a word out of her."

_Please please please oh pleaseplease_. It's claw hovers over her eye. It will blind her, she knows this suddenly, because sight is the barrier between them.

"But Ron," Molly tries feebly, "she's a _girl_."

"What's your point? So is Ginny."

But it hesitates. It wants to hurt her, but it won't. Hermione knows it very badly wants to reach inside of her and pull pieces out one at a time, but it will not touch her. Not now. Not yet. Still it does not move. There is light filtering in through her eyelids, and she can see its shadow, impossibly large, moving on top of her.

"Hermione's as good as a sister to us," Harry says quietly.

"Yeah!" Ron is louder. "And I'm not going to let my sister suffer whatever bloody...whatever they did to her... alone!"

The door to her room bangs open and the weight leaves her chest. She gasps sharply and sits bolt upright, her eyes wide and unseeing. She is awake, now, and the room is empty and it is not as dark as she thought it was. There is as lamp in the corner and the room is not dark, even without the light outlining her two best friends in the doorway.

Ron swears and leans back against the door, clutching a rolled up sleeping bag to his chest, but Harry is by her side in an instant, dropping his own sleeping back and wrapping her in a one-armed hug as she forces her breath to slow down before she loses it completely.

"Sorry," she says, offering Harry a wavering smile.

"Don't mention it," Harry answers, not looking at her. "It's fine." His voice is light.

Ron slowly walks forward and sits down on her other side. "You're alright, yeah?" He asks, and just like that, the months of awkward dating and then even awkwarder not-dating are buried in the distant past and she and Ron are friends again and this, she knows, is half of why she will always love Ron as a friend- because he is loyal to her no matter what. He may wander off and they may fight, but he always comes back and is always there when it counts.

"Yeah," she says, and means it when she says it, "Yeah. I'm ok."

* * *

**Saturday, September 28th.**

She doesn't want to be idle. She feels like if she is left alone for too long the dark will creep in along the edges of the room and will swallow her back into that stinking, wretched room. She asks- no, begs- Kingsley to give her something to do and so he hands her a stack of parchments.

"A code," he says, "We don't know what it means, but we've been intercepting pieces of it for the last two months."

"You think they're planning something," she says. It isn't a question. She is looking at the top page. It is a mess of runes, and she only knows about sixty percent of them on sight.

"They're always planning something. So are we."

* * *

**Tuesday, October 1st.**

It is three days until Harry and Ron will leave her side, although she knows it will be much longer until they all stop sleeping in the same room. They seemed to be making up for her capture by remaining vigilant now. But war doesn't stop when someone goes missing and it certainly doesn't stop when they come back and seven days after Hermione has returned, there is a battle somewhere and Harry and Ron have to go, although Hermione knows that they would both rather stay with her. There is something comfortable in pretending that it is just the three of them and the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Before they leave, Harry presses her wand into her hand. Her wand. The one she thought was lost when she was captured. She thought it was gone forever and hasn't even bothered looking for it, she was too afraid to know what had become of it and now it is here in her hands, but Harry is pleading with her before she can raise her voice against him. "Please don't do anything. Not until we get back. I can't lose you again, Hermione, and neither can Ron. Not now."

Then he is gone before she can say _what about me? What am I supposed to do without you?_ and she is fairly certain that he planned it like that, but now that she is alone, she doesn't know what to do with herself. Crookshanks winds around her ankles. He appeared suddenly two days ago and hasn't left her side since, only sleeping when she is busy with Harry and Ron and never at all when it is just the two of them in the room.

* * *

**Friday, October 4th.**

She is getting nowhere in the code breaking. Something about moving something something. She asks to be put back into battle.

Remus shakes his head. He is an old man. He is a mountain worn to dust. "No, Hermione. The last time you went into battle, we almost lost you, and if that weren't bad enough, Harry and Ron were going crazy looking for you. I feared we would lose them, too. So, no. I think it best if you just work on going through those artifacts at the ministry."

Hermione is not a fool- she knows that Remus is telling her that she is a liability and she wants to scream because this is _her_ war, too.

In the hallway, the portrait of Sirius' mother is awakened. "_Filth! Scum! By-products of dirt and vileness! Half-breeds, mutants, freaks!"_

Hermione would destroy that portrait if she could. She would rip it from the wall and splinter it if she could.

"_Be gone from this place! Mudbl-"_

Just then, there is a sound of wood splintering and cloth ripping and the portrait of Walburga Black screams once.

Lupin and Hermione are in the hall immediately, wands drawn, backs to the wall. Lupin raises a hand to stop her from walking forward, and he takes a step towards the hall and then another, but a strangled cry rings out.

"No!" Howls Kreacher, "No! My Mistress! My Mistress! She is," and then they can hear as Kreacher crumples to the floor with broken sobs.

Lupin and Hermione rush forward now, caution discarded behind them. Where was once the portrait hung in the long hallway leading from the front door there was now a portrait-sized splintering in the wood, a gaping hole into the dining room on the other side of the wall.

There are feet pounding around them now.

"What the hell?" Shouts Ron as he and Harry shoot down the stairs.

"What happened?" Tonks barrels around the corner, knocking over the troll-leg umbrella stand.

Mrs. Weasley is close behind her, "Is everyone alright?"

Kreacher howls like an animal in pain.

"The security must have been compromised. We have to go. Everyone, grab your things. Ron, watch the door with me. Nymphadora-"

"I'll watch the door with you."

"No. Help Molly pack. We have to leave fast. Get word to your mother to lower the wards. Everyone move! We have fifteen minutes" He shouts the last part and the entire inhabitants of Number 12 Grimmauld Place snaps into action at once and Hermione is left in the hallway with Ron and Remus, whose wands are trained on the front door.

Hermione's tongue is lead and her ears are underwater and before she can tell Remus not to panic, he has already turned to her. He is already saying, "Hermione, go! We don't have much time," and her feet are carrying her up to her room to help Harry throw random, reduced items into his trunk and into her beaded bag and they are leaving the house and they are apparating in groups of three to Tonk's mother's house and things are moving so fast that she does not have time to stop and think and she barely manages to hang onto Crookshanks, who has been shoved into his carrier by too many hands.

* * *

**Saturday, October 12th.**

Hermione cannot sit still. They have all been at Ted and Andromeda Tonks' house for three days. Even Kreacher was eventually pulled from the ragged bits of his mistress's portrait and Hermione is sure that she is going mad.

Harry and Ron are out hunting horcruxes again- something she is still sore to realize she isn't allowed to do. They have gone, she knows, because it was killing Harry to hide out in a safehouse when people were dying for a war he is not allowed to fight. Not yet, anyway. The order won't risk losing him before he kills Voldemort. They've all rallied around a prophecy they have never even heard (although she knows and Harry knows and Kingsley and Lupin know the details), but they aren't so confident that they'll let Harry loose in war if they can help it.

So he and Ron have gone off hunting horcruxes, but all either boy seems to want to do is lock her in a little box until everything is better. They won't even tell her why Kreacher has the locket. Which is just _so stupid_, as she shouted at them before they left, because she is the clever one.

But she is also their Hermione. There is a tactical advantage to her staying behind, too. She can do so much good for the order by figuring out dark curses before they are ever used. She must put her massive intellect to use, and so she hugged them and tried not to cry until after they left. She tries to ignore the ache that comes with knowing that it is Ron who Harry needs with him for the hunt, and not her. She tries not to think about how it has always been Harry and Ron and if she wasn't so useful, so clever, they might not have ever wanted her at all. She should be figuring out that damned code, and she is trying. She knows, now, that they are moving something, but she doesn't know anything else about it- including what is it and where is is going. There is a series of numbers, repeated in each page of parchment: 099058400171 and it has to mean something, but she doesn't know what. It isn't an Azkaban number, it doesn't have any arithmancy significance. It doesn't mean anything, as far as she can tell, but it is always there, and so it must be significant.

Hermione is sharing a room with Ginny who is _nice_, but who always pretends to be harder than she is, and sometimes Hermione wearies of Ginny's brave sneer and the scared eyes behind the look. They listen to Potterwatch now, and they listen for names of people they know in the list of the dead. Tonight was a good night- no one new is dead or missing and Hermione is going mad because she knows that something is about to happen, only she doesn't know what and she doesn't know when.

* * *

**Thursday, October 17th.**

She is in the backyard, watching the orange and pink sunset without really thinking about it when the call comes in the form of a patronus shooting past her and into the house. She races back inside just as Tonks vanishes with a snap.

Her mind is moving twice as fast now, because she is frightened and she is more awake than she has been in days, and suddenly the pieces of the code are falling together. If something big is happening tonight, then they are using it as a distraction. If it is happening tonight, and she knows the date and she knows the time, then maybe, maybe the rest are coordinates? She doesn't have time to wonder if this is correct because if she is right, then it has already started and she is wasting precious time to intercept...whatever it is that they are moving. She is Hermione Granger. She is the cleverest witch of her age. She has to help.

She unfurls a map on the kitchen table, locates the coordinates, and disapparates before she can second guess herself.

She is being squeezed through a tube that is too tight for her to fit through and she knows that her lungs are going to explode from the pressure and then, all at once, she is thrown out of the too-tight tube and she is rolling along the ground and she slams into a tree- causing sparks of color to flash across her vision and a hiss of pain escapes through her teeth.

"What was that?" Calls a woman's voice that Hermione thinks she might recognize, but cannot place.

"I don't know, Alecto," comes a gravelly voice, dripping with ill-disguised disgust. Yaxely. Hermione is on her feet and her wand is in her hand in an instant, staring into the darkening woods around her. "Why don't you go check?"

Alecto mumbles something, low and sulky.

"Then I suggest we get a move on. The Order has already started to trickle in, and I want our prisoner out of here before he is spotted."

Hermione edges forward silently, hugging trees as she approaches the voices. Bravery is beating in her blood now. They have a prisoner. A prisoner who needs help. Their cargo. She was right. She was _right!_

She can see them now. There are three of them around a dark lump on the ground.

"Lumos!" Says the tall one in front, and lights up his own face. Hermione doesn't recognize him, but he can't be much older than she is. He bends down to the lump on the ground. It is a body, but Hermione had expected as much, given the conversation she just overheard.

The body looks to belong to a tall man in a tattered gray shirt and dark pants. He has no shoes and his toes are turning a worrying shade of blue in the dying light. His arms and legs are bound in thick, winding ropes, but he has a black bag over his head, and so Hermione doesn't know who he might be, or whether he is dangerous enough to merit this treatment.

"How are we supposed to move him?" Asks the one Hermione doesn't know, and lodges a kick at their prisoner, catching him in the side so hard Hermione would swear she heard bone snap, but the man in the hood doesn't so much as moan. Hermione wonders if he is conscious. If he is human.

"Levicorpus, you idiot," snarls Yaxley. He must be the taller figure in the back, then.

"I've got the light," retorts the man in the front. "Someone else will have to lift him."

"Carrow." Yaxley is cool when he says it. He is in charge in whatever mission this is.

Alecto Carrow grumbles something as she shuffles forward, points her wand at the body.

Hermione takes one step forward, and a twig snaps under her boot. Four heads snap toward her as she flattens herself against the tree, narrowly missing the two jets of green light that are fired at precisely where she just stood.

Several things happen at once. Hermione whirls around the tree, shouting "Stupefy!" The prone figure on the ground erupts into action, and he is on his feet faster than Hermione can see, and throws himself, still bound, at the death eater with the light. The man falls under the weight of his prisoner, something snaps loudly, his wand is thrown from his hand, and they are all plunged into darkness.

There is a yell and the sound of something being dragged quickly across the ground. Yaxely swears loudly and shoots a spell out into the darkness, and for one second something completely inhuman appears, dazzling yellow light flickering off of its flat, featureless face as the yellow light connects with it. And Hermione realizes that it was just a tree as the bark splinters off in hundreds of directions at once.

Hermione uses the fading light burned into her retinas to send a stunning spell in Yaxley's direction.

There is nothing at all after that for long, painful moments until Hermione finds enough air in her lungs to whisper "Lumos!" Her light is weak at first, but as she scans the space between the trees and illuminates no standing death eaters, the light gets brighter and catches on a dark mass on the ground. She swivels and sees Yaxely, unconscious, but still breathing, before she returns her attention to the prone figures.

"Please, no," she prays to no one as she rushes forward.

As she does, the mass moves, and the prisoner rolls back, revealing the body of the young death eater, his neck badly snapped to the side. With shaking fingers, Hermione reaches down toward the death eater, checking for a pulse.

"You killed him. He's dead," she tells the prisoner, and is surprised that her voice does not shake as much as her hands do, "And Yaxely's unconscious, but I don't know where Carrow went." She glances around. There is no sign of her, but she knows that she cannot be too far away. "Are you hurt?"

The prisoner's hood cocks gently to one side for a moment.

"Can you speak English?"

There is still no response.

She considers taking his hood off, but then her eyes slide back to the dead death eater, still warm under her fingertips. Ideally, she would like to avoid a similar fate from a badly deranged prisoner of war, who could be a friend or a foe, and was dangerous either way. "Petrificus Totalus," she says and the body of the prisoner locks up immediately. She edges forward and shakily pulls off the hood.

At first, she doesn't recognize the wizard staring stonily against her wandlight. His hair is shaved so close to his scalp that she can't tell what color it would be, and most of his face is so badly covered in bruises and swollen, split tissue that it takes her a moment to piece together the flat gray eyes locked on hers. His stare is vaguely calculating, even while petrified. The way a lion watches a mouse when it is not hungry.

"Malfoy?" She asks this out loud because she is so startled that the word leaves her lips before she can stop them. She waves her wand and he is unfrozen, but still tied in place. She locks his legs and arms with jinxes just to be safe. She has seen what he can do while bound.

His eyes snap up to hers when she says his name, and then they are tracing her face like she is a book that he can read.

Hermione entertains the idea of leaving him here for the death eaters or the Order or the wolves to find, but she can't really leave him, of course, even though he most certainly deserves it. Even though it is his fault that Dumbledore is dead and this war is blasting holes in her life. Everything, she realizes suddenly, can be traced back to this stupid boy and all the fool choices he has made. It is sorely tempting to leave him here to rot, but at the end of the day, she is Hermione Granger and leaving people to rot is just not what she does.

"Okay," she is talking to herself now, and they both know it, "Okay. Alright. I'm not going to leave you here, just don't try to do to me what you did to him," she nods back at the death eater behind her, rubs her thumb in small circles around the base of her wand, "I have-" _I have a serious desire to leave you here to rot, so don't test me. I have friends who don't know where I am and who won't notice I was gone if I get back first. I have no reason to save you. _"a wand." She holds it and waggles it back and forth. The lumos wavers with the motion. It makes her feel faintly carsick. "Ok?"

He- obviously- does not respond. Because he can't. Because his jaw is so swollen that she is surprised he can still hold his head upright.

"Ok. _Finite!_"

Malfoy doesn't move.

"Right. Are you hurt?"

Malfoy gives her a long look through his badly beaten face. His eyes narrow, and she only catches it because she is staring at them- still the only part of his face that she can recognize.

"I mean in any immediately life threatening way. Obviously you've been better." She glances at Yaxely's prone figure. She should take him to the ministry for questioning. It is the smart thing to do. , but she can't risk leaving Malfoy for someone else to find or for Carrow when she comes back.

He shakes his head. Blood trickles from his nose in a slow-moving stream with the gesture and it glistens black in her wand light. She wonders if it is as painful as it looks.

"Ok. Are you in need of rescuing?"

He tilts his head to one side and doesn't answer. His eyebrows might lower, but that could also just be a trick of the shimmer of wandlight.

She folds her arms across her chest, suddenly feeling very cold and also very stupid. "Look, I don't know what they wanted with you or where they were taking you, but Carrow is probably going to be back soon and with help. Maybe you'd rather just stay here to take your chances rather than accept help from a- from someone like me. That's up to you." She drags bent fingers through her hair, driving it back from her face. She should have put it up before she decided to take off on some half-formed lead. Or, better yet, she shouldn't have gone at all, or at least _told _someone where she is. "I don't know. What I want to know is, are you, Draco Malfoy, king of Ferrets, in need of rescuing? Yes or no?"

He is quiet for so long that Hermione thinks he isn't going to answer. She is waiting for him to either nod or shake his head. His jaw is swollen on the left side so badly that she is sure it must be broken, but she isn't sure where. Then, slowly, a red tongue darts out between his lips and moistens them, "Yes," he says slowly. He sounds like he is speaking through a mouthful of granite. His front teeth are jagged points and pink with old blood.

She waits for him to say something else, but when he doesn't, she takes a step forward, eyes wildly tracing the trees around them, afraid of the dark and silence. "Great. Ok. I'm going to stupefy you and take you somewhere safe. Ok?"

He takes in a breath like he is going to protest and so "Stupefy!" she shouts before he has the chance.


	4. Thick Blood

****A/N******: Thank you so much for your kind words! The reviews have given me the drive to continue to post chapters in a timely fashion! Just so everyone is fully aware ****IF I GET REVIEWS, I FIGURE PEOPLE ARE INTERESTED. IF I DO NOT GET REVIEWS (even if they say you think I should change something or even if they're just like, "Hey, I read this") THEN I DON'T THINK ANYONE LIKES IT AND I WILL PROBABLY STOP POSTING CHAPTERS BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO WASTE ANYONE'S TIME.**** I don't actually have confidence in this stuff. I'm just sort of banging a keyboard and hoping something comes out ok.**

* * *

**Thursday, October 17th. Continued.**

They arrive in the backyard of Andromeda's house and Hermione steps away from Malfoy's still-prone body, dropping his wrist like his skin has burned her. Her chest is heaving, but Andromeda is already walking out towards her, her wand lit and the house lit up behind her, bright yellow.

"Where have you been?" Andromeda is always calm, always composed and cold in a way that Hermione at once fears and admires. Her voice rings clearly in the still night air. Hermione can't tell if Andromeda even knew she had left in the first place, but she betrays no surprise now.

"I figured out the code. Well, enough of it to be getting on with. The death eaters were moving a thing. Tonight." And with this, Hermione Granger wins the Most Informative Speech of the Year award. "They had a prisoner."

Andromeda Tonks approaches the body on the ground at Hermione's feet. "Who is it?" She asks and there is no anger, still, although Hermione is sure that someone will have anger for her later. She was very stupid. Very rash. She could have gotten herself killed. Worse than killed, even, if they had tortured information out of her.

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione's eyes follow Andromeda's down to Malfoy's battered face, mangled and expressionless, still stunned. The patches of coagulating blood along the jagged lines of broken skin shine orange and gold in the light from the house.

The older witch considers this for a moment, simply staring at Malfoy's calm features, she looks like she is calculating the weight of each bruise, the net worth of shredded skin. "Narcissa's son?" she asks eventually, and suddenly Hermione realizes that she was looking for her sister in Malfoy's face.

Hermione remembers then that Andromeda and Narcissa are sisters. Both Blacks before they married and this might be the first time that Andromeda is seeing her nephew and he is all but unrecognizable. When was the last time she even laid eyes on her sister? "Yes," she says eventually, because there are no real words for this sort of situation. Hermione rubs her thumb over the base of her wand.

"You shouldn't have brought him here," Andromeda is still staring down at him, etching the image of him into her brain.

"Sorry?" Hermione voice is high when she answers and she rocks forward on her feet because she is sure that she has misheard Andromeda's words because her expression is too tender to mean that she is turning him away. Where will he go, if not here?

"He is a death eater and he probably has a trace on him. Take him to Azkaban immediately. I will send word to Dawlish that you will be bringing him shortly."

"Azkaban?" Hermione echoes. She is trying to keep up with what is happening, but she can't understand. "No," she says because maybe she wasn't clear the first time. She tilts her chin down and speaks out loud and clear, just so there is no confusion. "He was their prisoner. Look what they did to him!" She gestures with her left had at Malfoy's face, which is still leaking blood onto the grass.

"And he is also a death eater," Andromeda repeats. She is calm, and this is starting to annoy Hermione, just a bit. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione sees a shadow move, but Andromeda doesn't seem to notice it because she is still staring down at Malfoy with an almost loving expression. "How they deal with their own is no business of ours."

"This is insane!" Hermione counters and her voice is loud and she is gesturing at the air between them. "He's hurt!"

"No." Andromeda's eyes rise to Hermione's face and that cold composure in them stops Hermione before she can say another word. Andromeda's hands are clasped in front of her, around her wand, "This is a war. He is the enemy. Dawlish will let the Aurors on guard know that you are on your way."

Hermione shakes her head. She has to calm down. Shouting won't accomplish anything except making her look more childish than she is. "I've never been to Azkaban before. I can't take him there."

"To the ministry, then. Kingsley should still be in his office. It isn't too late yet. I would offer to take him, but I am on healer's watch until Nymphadora and the others return. Excuse me." She turns and heads back to the house. The conversation is very clearly over.

Hermione takes three deep breaths through her nose. Of course she shouldn't have brought Draco Malfoy here. She was a fool to think otherwise. But what else could she do? He is laid out as still as a corpse when she takes his wrist and apparates them both to the ministry.

* * *

The Atrium is empty when she arrives and she doesn't know where Kingsley's office is. Since the assassination of Rufus Scrimgeour on the night of Bill and Fleur's wedding, the ministry has kept the movements of the new minister as quiet as possible to avoid another attack. Thank god the Death Eater coup for the ministry failed. Hermione doesn't know what they would do if it fell.

Malfoy is laying on the ground at her feet, but his wrist is still in her hand. His fingers twitch.

Gingerly, Hermione sets his wrist on the ground at his side. She takes a step away from him and points her wand at his chest.

His eyes open and stare at the ceiling before wheeling in a slow circle around himself, taking in his surroundings.

"We're in the Atrium at the ministry." she says, although he probably doesn't need her to say it. Her voice echoes around her even though she was trying to be quiet. She looks around, too. The shadows are long in the corners around the black fireplaces and she tries not to imagine what could be lurking in those dark spaces. She remembers the dark cell and the body and the monster in the corner and she takes a step back towards Malfoy without realizing it. "We're waiting for someone."

"Who?"

His voice startles her. She didn't think he would speak, had forgotten that he could. His voice is shoes scraping over gravel, and it is deeper than she remembers it being, but that is probably from months of disuse.

She opens her mouth to tell him the truth about why they are here- that Andromeda turned them away and now he is going to prison and it is in no way her fault at all- but then there are footsteps. Several sets of them and there are loud voices that she knows, but doesn't believe. She is afraid, suddenly that something has gone terribly wrong and no one has yet realized it.

"Untie me," he hisses so quickly she has to replay his words in her head to understand their meaning.

She must give him a look that says quite clearly how insane he must think she is, because he gives her an even look and says very calmly, "Fenrir Greyback and six of his werewolves are coming up the stairs at the end of the hall. They are unkind to witches. My body may slow them down for a few minutes, at most, but they will persist until they find you. They can smell you as clearly as I can and they are faster than you are. I will not attack you. I do not want to die by the hand of your great black friend, Mudblood. I am more useful alive than dead."

She only has a second to make a decision and she doesn't have time to piece together his words, but he is clearly not on good terms with the death eaters and the enemy of her enemy must, hopefully, be her friend. Under normal circumstances, his use of the word _Mudblood_ would be enough for her to leave him there to rot, but his voice is so pathetic, slurred around broken teeth and a badly broken jaw. She whispers _Diffindo_ and tries to aim at the thick knot in the rope at the side of his thigh, but her hands shake so badly that the spell also cuts through the dark fabric of his pants and the skin beneath them, too. He lets out a sound that might have been a sigh and then he is on his feet.

Hermione doesn't have time to apologize or scream before he is upon her, one hand clamped around her mouth and the other gripped around her wrist so hard that she can feel the bone bending under his fingers. "Don't make a sound," he breathes into her ear. His breath smells like iron and rot. Her neck aches from straining against his grip and she realizes that he is dragging her back towards, away from the staircase and the voices. She stumble along, her feet begging for purchase, but it doesn't matter because he is moving her whether she wants to go or not. She tried to raise her wand against him, but of course he keeps her wrist pinned to her side as they move.

Then, suddenly, he is not moving anymore and she realizes that they are in an alcove that she has never noticed before. It must be a storage closet whose door has been left open, a disinterested part of her brain figures distractingly. Once they are in the closet, his pins her against the far wall and pulls his hand from her wrist. He keeps his other hand clamped firmly across her mouth, though, and breathes, "Not a noise, no matter what." against her hair.

Of course, her first instinct it to punch him in the face, tie him up, and then disapparate both of them somewhere safe, but Malfoy isn't paying any attention to her. His face is half-turned turned toward the open door like a dog scenting the air and the voices are getting closer. Light is streaming into the cupboard and his face is blank as a doll's, his eyes fixed out of the room onto something she can't see. Hermione's back is pressed against the far wall and Malfoy has positioned himself directly between her in the door. Probably to keep her from running out and giving them away, she thinks savagely, as if she would ever be as stupid as that!

Someone hoots in laughter and there is the scuffling of shoes across the stone. Someone breathes heavily. Hermione realizes he lied to her. There is a flood of feet across marble.

"Come on now, Mister Minister," Fenrir's voice is more wolf than human. "Where's your sense of fun?"

Kingsley answers, but his voice is too quiet for Hermione to hear him, even though she holds her breath and strains her ears to listen.

There is a round of jeering laughter and something slaps against the ground. Hermione struggles against Malfoy's grip, but his hand across her chest is like an iron bar. She tries to scream against his hand, but cannot make a sound. She bites at him, tastes the tang of iron, but still he doesn't move.

"Now, that wouldn't be in good sport, would it, Mister Minister?"

She can't start turning to disapparate and she can't get her arm up to hex him. She kicks him instead, brings her hands up to claw at his arm, raking away thick tracts of skin, but he doesn't so much as look at her. Gone are the days when an ounce of pain would send Malfoy squealing for his father. Her face is wet with tears. She curses him over and over in her mind and wishes she had left him with the death eaters in the wood.

There is a scuffle of footsteps and the sound of skin connecting with skin. Someone swears, but others laugh.

"We've got a fighter, hey boys!" Greyback crows.

Hermione closes her eyes, willing the tears to stop. _What are you doing?_ she silently prays, _Someone, anyone help him!_

This is the point when the Order of the Phoenix is supposed to sweep in and save the day. Here is when the aurors swarm through the fireplaces and kill Greyback and his monsters. Where is Lupin? Where is Dumbledore? Where is god or justice or the triumph of good over evil? Kingsley Shacklebolt, the minister of magic, who rubbed circles on Hermione's back when she vomited onto the floor, who handed her stacks of code to decipher, is being taken away by werewolves. Where are Harry and Ron?

A scuffle breaks out in the Atrium and Hermione freezes when someone shouts, "He's got my wand!" Hope roars wild in her chest.

"Expecto Patronum!" Bellows Kingsley, "Find Arthur," he snaps out as someone collides with him, "The ministry has fallen!" The last syllable is cut off as he smacks to the floor and Hermione winces at the sound, "They are coming!" There is a flash of white light as Kingsley's Lynx rushes past their closet.

Greyback swears loudly, "The Dark Lord isn't going to like that. Come on!" There is the sound of something heavy dragging across the floor. Hermione can see the green light of a fireplace coming to life across the hall. "The Manor!" growls Greyback. six voices do the same and then the atrium is silent.

It is only when he steps forward into the Atrium without her that Hermione realizes Malfoy has released her.

Hermione snaps into action like a rubber band snapping into shape. Her mind is filing away new information, processing changes, and looking up material even as she chases after Malfoy and stops a foot behind him as he bends stiffly at the waist, examining something that she hasn't seen yet. Questions are tumbling one after the other out of her mouth. "Can we follow them to the manor? How did you know how many there were? Where are they taking him? What are you looking at? Are you working with them? Answer me, Malfoy!"

He crouches down and when she walks right up behind him, she sees that it is blood in a pool on the floor that he is staring at. "Whose is that?" She asks before she can stop herself. She thinks she knows, but she doesn't want to assume anything, especially now that nothing seems as stable as it did half an hour ago. She imagines that the floor she is standing on is ice, only she didn't realize that before she heard it start to snap under her feet. She rubs her wand with her thumb in small, nervous circles.

Malfoy looks up at her. "Do I look like a tracking hound to you, Granger?" There is a cool scorn in his voice that she recognizes- a smug lilt to his aristocratic accent and she grabs on to the sense of comfortable antagonism that it awakens in her.

"Then how did you know how many there were? How did you know they had K-kingsley? Why did you lie to me?" The words choke out before she can stop them. Then, again, the question forces itself out, "Where are they taking him?" Like she doesn't already know. Like there is hope for him.

"I am not an oracle for your fancy, Mudblood," and his pale gaze slides past her and around to the fireplaces. "What I know and what I don't know are not known for naught."

She furrows her brow and raises her wand at him. "How did you know how many there were?" she asks and her voice is cold. This is important. This might be an answer that she can use. She just watched their best hope get taken away by a pack of werewolves. She doesn't want to be fucked with. Not now.

"I see many things. You'll have to be more specific." He eyes the tip of her wand the way one watches a fly on a windowsill.

"Don't play dumb, Malfoy. You know what I'm talking about." and she isn't sure that she could tell him out loud if she wanted to. The words for what she means to say don't exist. Not in any language she knows, anyway. How does one sum up the witness of atrocity? One doesn't, of course, and that is the most violent part of it- the part that can't ever be put into words.

"What, pray, do you think you will do with that wand that will make me answer you?"

The question catches her off guard, but he hasn't moved from his place on the floor and suddenly she realizes that she must look like she's threatening him. Then, she wonders if maybe this isn't such a bad thing, since he dragged her across the floor not five minutes ago. Hermione is in a place where paths fork. She has two options: She can be _sure_ that the information she wants from Malfoy comes, and quickly. She's never cast an unforgivable before, detests dark magic as a rule, but this is a war, and she has never had trouble mastering spells in a pinch. The boy- man- on the ground in front of her is the first one to teach her hatred, the first one to teach her a slur that she has spent the last seven years trying to rip out of her own veins, the one who set up Dumbledore to die. If there was ever someone beyond redemption, who was not worth her mercy, it is him. But she has a second option, too, and soon as she knows that she has a choice, she makes her decision.

She lowers her wand, but only just so the point is fixed on his still-blue toes. She doesn't do it for _him._ She doesn't do it because he is worth saving, because he isn't. She does it because he is not worth ruining herself over and she doesn't want the stink of dark magic on her for the sake of someone like _him_.

"I won't do anything to you," she finally says, "I just don't want you to grab me again and I don't trust you."

He considers this for a moment and doesn't answer.

"But please, Malfoy," she grinds the words out between clenched teeth.

"One question." His eyes are off of her again and she doesn't know what he's looking at, but his gaze is flicking back and forth like he can read secrets on the walls behind her.

She doesn't need long to figure out how she'll spend her one question. "How did you know how many were coming?" She repeats. Malfoy's posture changes so that he is turned slightly away from the dark corner directly behind Hermione and she feels a prickle along the nape of her neck that she associates with being watched. She flicks her eyes back to the corner, but doesn't see anything in the shadow.

"I guessed, Mudblood," he says distractedly, and he is looking at the blood again, dipping his fingers into it, "Ask your dark friend if you want to know more."

He doesn't answer anything she says after that, although she asks again and again what does he mean? who is he working for? why was he a prisoner? what the hell does he mean by _dark friend_? Does he mean Kingsley? If so, this is racist in a whole new way that he has never mentioned before.

"We should leave," he stands so suddenly she takes a step back and her breath catches in her throat. If he notices, he doesn't give any sign. "We are not safe here."

"Well, obviously," she huffs. She doesn't know where to take him, though. She knows she was supposed to take him to Azkaban, but that was before things got quite so complicated. For now, though, she doesn't know what to do. She can't take him back to Andromeda's, and she hasn't been to any of the other safe houses that are currently in use. She has to contact Lupin before she does anything else with Malfoy. She has to tell them about Kingsley so they can mount a rescue and set things straight once and for all. "Come here," she says and holds out her arm. "I'll take you to a safe house."

He loops his hand around the cloth of her jumper like he doesn't want to touch her. Like she is contagious. She grinds her teeth together and her lips thin.

* * *

When they arrive at Grimmauld place, it is as silent as death, which is exactly what she was hoping for. He doesn't complain when she raises her wand and stupefies him before running up to the second floor to look for first aid supplies because she can't just leave him broken up, but she can't leave him on his own, either. He isn't exactly trust-inspiring. When she returns with an armful of bandages, he is precisely where she left him, and she lets out a shaky breath before she ennervates him.

"Here," she says, and shoves an armful of cloth at him. He inspects the bundle warily before he takes it and then pulls out the the metal first aid kit that she was lucky enough to find in the bathroom on the second landing. "There's a bottle of dittany, some wound cleaner, and some bruise cream, too. I don't know much about healing spells, past some basics, but those should take care of the worst of it." _Hopefully,_ she doesn't say. "You probably shouldn't, uh, shower until your feet are a normal color again," she is reaching back in her head for everything she has ever learned about first aid magic. "They look a bit frost-bitten to me. I'll fix your face for you, if you want."

He gives her a look that says quite plainly that he would rather not, but her wand is out and between her fingers, and so he gingerly, grudgingly, opens his mouth.

She tries not to gag. It is not that he is simply missing teeth. There are jagged chunks of teeth still embedded in his gums and other spaces where there are no teeth left at all. All things considered, though, the damage is much worse to his top teeth than to his bottom ones, and his right bottom molars are almost completely undamaged, although they are as pink as his other teeth. Hermione has seen a mouth or two in her time. She can remember summers spent reading in the chair in her mother's office, leafing through Dental Reference Books and asking questions about gum disease. She tries not to think about what her parents would say if they could see Malfoy's mouth now. Every time she thinks about them, a knife twists in her chest and she must repeat to herself that they are safe in Australia like it is a prayer.

She looks away from him and breathes through her mouth. The stench of rot is overpowering. She steels herself, looks back and says "Episkey," with a wave of her wand. The split in his lip mends and a chunk of tooth is pushed out of his fast-repairing gumline. He prods it into his palm with his tongue and opens his mouth again.

She turns her head to the left to breathe shakily before returning her attention to him, trying not to inhale in his face, lest she actually vomit. God, he smells horrible. "Episkey," she says again and she can hear his jaw popping back into place with a nauseating _click._ "Episkey," and his nose straightens with a series of small crunches as cartilage shifts over bone. "Episkey," and the thin stream of blood leaking from a gash on his sunken cheek sews itself shut and the cheek beneath it re-inflates.

After forty five minutes and six more castings, his face is almost visible under a thick layer of bruising, although she still isn't sure she would recognize him. "I don't think I'll be able to do anything about the teeth, though," she adds apologetically. "I mean, I could grow them out, but maybe if you just rinse your mouth out with Dittany, it'll be better. So they aren't jagged, you know."

He nods mutely, but doesn't move.

"Do you want to change?" She suggests, rolling her eyes. She glances at the clock. She has to contact the order to tell them about Kingsley, but she doesn't want to do it in front of Malfoy.

He just stares at her, blank as a board.

"Well, go on," she nods towards the bathroom door, "I'm not going to wait all night."

He finally goes to change and she floos Andromeda.

"Oh, Hermione," it is Tonks who answers. "I was so worried! Mum said you brought back a death eater? Wherever you are, don't move. Security has been compromised and the floo network isn't safe."

"I found Draco Malfoy. Some Death Eaters were taking him somewhere."

"That doesn't matter now. The ministry has fallen. Kingsley's been taken. We shouldn't be talking on this right now."

"I know. About Kingsley."

This seems to catch Tonks off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I was there." And she tells Tonks as much as she can about what she overheard from the closet at the ministry. "And so now he's changing in the bathroom."

"You left your back open to him?" Tonks roars, her eyes suddenly wide with fear.

Before anything else can happen, Tonk's face has left the fire and she is standing beside Hermione her wand drawn. "Where is he?"

"I'm here, cousin." Comes the smooth reply.

Malfoy has clearly used a liberal amount of the bruise cream, because his face is clear and he looks almost like the boy she knew in school. He is gaunt, and the hollows around his eyes make him seem more animal, more skeleton, than man, and his lips are still concave around an empty mouth of broken teeth, but he looks remarkably at ease in Ron's shirt (too long), Harry's pants (too short), and socks she found bunched under Ron's bed (but seem to fit him fine). Like he has owned every article of clothing all his life. Even broken, he retains a grace that she can only envy in a small corner of her mind that is reserved for such vacuous thoughts, even at times like this.

Tonk's wand is on him. "Give me a reason, Malfoy. A single one."

He just stares back at her. Hermione is invisible in the room behind the older witch. She eases her own wand out of her pocket. Later, she won't remember why she thought that taking out her wand would accomplish anything. By this point, she is so thoroughly confused about Malfoy- she doesn't trust him, but she doesn't quite _not_ trust him, either- that she isn't sure she would use her wand on him unless he decides to lunge at them.

"To what, cousin?" He asks, his head tilted gently to the side. His voice is lazy and he doesn't even look down at her wand. His eyes are on her face and they are dull as ditchwater, but sparkling with something like fury.

"Don't call me that!" Tonks snarls. Her hair is turning black at the roots and her ears are sharpening into points.

He smiles like a shark, and his jagged teeth are brown in the glint of the fire. "But that is what you are, cousin. Blood, you know, is thicker than-"

And with that, Malfoy is bound where he stands and he smacks his head against a bookshelf as he falls to the left. The face Hermione had so recently spent the better part of an hour trying to fix slams so hard into the fireplace that bits of brick chip off.

Tonks does not spare a look for Hermione, but says, very calmly, "I will take him to Azkaban and we will discuss your actions once I am back at the safehouse." As Tonks pulls the now unconscious Malfoy into a standing position by his ropes, Hermione watches the thin cords of muscle stand out along her arms. She is so much stronger than she looks, that Hermione marvels at her capableness. There is a snap as Tonk and Malfoy disapparate and then Hermione is alone in Grimmauld place.

There is something on the carpet that catches her attention and she stoops to pick up three wet pieces of tooth Malfoy lost when he fell. She pockets them because she isn't sure what else she should do with them and stares into the happily blazing fire, trying to collect her thoughts before she returns to Andromeda and Ted Tonks' house


	5. The Writing on the Wall

**Chapter 5**

Hi, guys. Sorry this chapter is a bit late- I've been swamped at work this week.

To those of you who reviewed: Thank you so very, very much for your support and feedback.

It really means the world to me and is, once again, the only reason why I keep updating this or any of my stories at all.

* * *

**Friday, October 18th.**

She hasn't been asleep for three hours before Ginny is gently shaking her awake. "Lupin's here," the younger girl says quietly. Her bright brown eyes are red-rimmed from crying. Everyone has been taking the news of Kingsley hard, but she had been too exhausted do much more than relay a very abbreviated version of the story to Ginny and Molly before she collapsed in her bed. She hasn't seen her boys since she got back, and she hopes that they return before news about the ministry gets out.

She nods and swings her feet around the edge of the bed. It's a cold night, but she doesn't even look for a pair of socks. She just grabs the little bottle off of the nightstand and pads down the two flights of stairs between her room and the kitchen.

"Hermione," Lupin greets. He looks awful, like he hasn't slept in a month. "I need you to tell me-"

"Here," she holds out the vial for him. "My memories. You can see it all for yourself. It will be more accurate than a verbal account, at any rate."

He looks down at the vial. "Are you sure that you want to give me that, Hermione?"

"I don't need it to be crystal clear for me." she shrugs, "I know the facts of it well enough," _and I want to forget about it_ she doesn't say. This month has been horrible enough without that floating around in her head.

He stares at the vial for a moment longer, but hesitantly takes it from her. He waves his wand over it, and murmurs a spell Hermione has never heard before. Suddenly, there are two vials in his hand. He passes one to her and pockets the other. "You should at least keep a copy of it," he tells her, "you may want it at some point in the future."

* * *

**Tuesday, October 22nd. **

It is 2:33 in the morning according to the clock above the doorframe. Hermione is sitting at the shining wooden table in Andromeda's kitchen and there is cup of tea in her hands that went cold half an hour ago.

Ginny is asleep in their room upstairs, but Hermione's sleep is fitful these days and sometimes, when she wakes up in the dark, she is positive that she is back in that pitch black cell. Ginny can't sleep with the lights on, and Hermione doesn't know how to say that she can't sleep in the dark. As a result, Hermione has started going to bed after the sun has come up, reading at the brightly lit kitchen table until the red eye of dawn opens on the horizon.

She would never thought herself such a coward as this- even when she was little she wasn't afraid of the dark, but it seemed to leech into her bones while she was in that stinking cell and she hasn't been able to shake it off yet. She hasn't told anyone in the house about it, of course- she knows, logically, that this sort of thing generally gets better with time, and so she will give it time before she asks Andromeda for some Dreamless Sleep or tries to ask Ginny if maybe they could leave a light on in the corner.

But she is getting increasingly sick of giving herself _time_.

It's been five days since Kingsley was taken by the werewolves, seven days since she has seen or heard from Harry or Ron, and almost a month since she left that dark room and still she isn't sure if she is still trapped in the dark somewhere, just too mad from loneliness or fear to realize that this is all a dream. Nothing but the passage of time, and all the waiting she has never wanted to do in the hours between.

There hasn't even been a battle to distract her. Not that she anticipates they will let her fight, of course, but the death eaters are quiet wherever they are, and the order is still reeling from losing the ministry. The most interesting thing that has happened in the last week has been the shutdown of the floo network, and that only took Ted about five minutes.

She wishes that Harry and Ron were here. She has never missed their presence as much as she misses them now. She figured, of course, that she wouldn't hear from them once word got out about the ministry. She knows it is too dangerous from them to risk exposure and she can only hope that Ron is doing whatever it takes to keep Harry from trying to run off to help.

The days are starting to get shorter and the nights are starting to get longer. She has spent five long nights sitting at this table with cold cups of chamomile-lavender tea and the books about dark magic that she'd taken from the ministry before it fell to the death eaters. Tonight she has a book from the stack confiscated from the Malfoy estate, and this one is a theory book, called Bestia Calumniatorem, but it sits unopened on the table before her.

Absentmindedly, she pulls Malfoy's teeth from her pocket. She hasn't been carrying them around on purpose- it's just that these are the same jeans she was wearing when she found him, and she forgot to take them out. She doesn't know what she'd do with them, anyway, and so she rubs her thumb over them in the palm of her hand. Left maxillary first bicuspid, pink and dragging root; left maxillary cuspid a cleaner removal and yellowing where the tooth once met the gum line; about 80% of a lateral incisor, jagged as a sawblade; and a crescent of what looks like it might be a central incisor.

She knows these teeth- remembers them from diagrams in her mother's office where she would sit after school in the big dentist chair, reading books or doing her homework. As she remembers this, a lump blocks her throat and her eyes sting.

She drags her knuckles angrily across her wet cheeks and murmurs a warming charm over her tea, but then it is too hot again. Sighing, she pulls her book closer to her, opens it to her place, and begins to read.

* * *

**Friday, October 25th.**

The bark on the tree she is hiding behind explodes in a shower of woodchips, and she fires a spell back blindly. She is not here to fight. They have made that abundantly clear. She is here to put some of her new learning into practice. There have been five counted uses of the Fire Beast spell since Fred died and Hermione thinks she might have found a counter-curse.

On her left, Mallory Bullstrode fires off a string of spells that Hermione has never heard before. Her short black hair is plastered to her round and shining face, but she looks almost serene in the light of magic around them. Bullstrode is her keeper for the evening, along with a mediwitch Hermione has never seen before named Nanita, with thick dark hair and a round, earnest face. The mediwitch- Nan, as she likes to be called- is somewhere close by, but Hermione doesn't know where.

There is a ear-splitting scream.

Bullstrode grabs her arm and tugs her fiercely in the direction of the scream. It is not hard to spot a giant beast made of bright blue flame in a dark forest at night and the mediwitch is beside her as she screams incantation after incantation. Hermione inhales smoke that smells like skin, "_Extinxero Iumentum_!" she chokes out and the beast raises its head to look at her, one massive paw still pinning its burning, screaming victim to the forest floor. Its eyes meet hers, two balls of blue-black flame sizing her up like a meal or a challenger. Then it turns away, raises its paw, takes one step away, and vanishes.

The mediwitch rushes forward to the still burning body and before Hermione can run to join her, Bullstrode has a firm grip on her arm again and is dragging her away from the thick of battle, shouting cursing wildly as they go. When they are a safe distance away, Bullstrode turns to face her.

Mallory Bullstrode is a small, thickset woman, and Hermione is at least a whole head taller than she is, but she can command a presence when she wants to, and Hermione has no trouble paying attention. "What is the counter-curse?" she asks. Her voice is high and breathless, her lips are pale pink, almost like she is wearing makeup. Her eyes are burning with what Hermione thinks might be glee or what the hit wizards sometimes call "Wandlight."

Hermione repeats the counter curse.

"Extinxero Iumentum?" repeats Bullstrode, waving her wand in a tight arch.

"ExTINxero IuMENtum," Hermione corrects, "and don't wave your wand so much. It's more straight down and then twist it at the handle. Yes. That was better."

"What will happen if it doesn't work?"

"Well," Hermione wrinkles her nose, "Either nothing at all or, if the Ignis Manticora thinks you aren't serious, it might change targets to you, but I don't know if that actually happens or if it was just an embellishment by the writer in the Bestia Calumniatorem."

Bullstrode gives her a hard look, "Right, well. I was supposed to take you back once you figured it out, and take over if they try to use that spell again, but I'm not risking getting killed if I don't do it right. Besides," she gives Hermione a ghost of a smile, "I have a feeling that you'll fight me if I try to bring you back to 'Dromeda's place."

Hermione smiles back and doesn't have to answer.

Mallory rolls her eyes, "You Gryffindors are all the same. Self-sacrificing ninnies, the lot of you," but there is no heat to her words and there is a wolfish grin on her face. "Only stick close to me, right? Dawlish will have my hide if you die on my watch. I'll cover you, you cover Nan, yeh?"

Hermione nods, grins, and then they are rushing back towards the mediwitch, spells flying as they go.

* * *

**Friday, October 25th, much later.**

When she gets back to Andromeda's later that night, she is dragging her feet, there is a deep cut across one cheek, and she smells like burnt skin, but she is happy. She ended the Ignis Maticora three times that night, and two of the curse victims had survived. One was Justin Finch-Fletchly and the other was a middle-aged woman who she hardly recognized under burns. Both were in St. Mungo's, but Nan, the mediwitch, was hopeful that Justin would be released the next morning and the older witch sometime that week.

She is bone-tired, but decides that she needs to shower, lest she get blood and dirt all over her bed. She stands under the hot water for five minutes before she begins to nod off, which she takes as the signal to get out and go to sleep.

She is toweling off her hair when she glances in the fogged-over bathroom mirror. She can make out her silhouette, pale and distorted in the mist, but behind her, there is a tall, dark shadow that seems to suck the light out of the room. The lights above her flicker.

* * *

**Sunday, October 27th.**

She gets an owl. Lupin asks if she would be willing to sit for a meeting tomorrow. She owls back immediately, says yes. She is glad that _something_ is happening.

"What was that about?" Ginny asks. She has been as bored as Hermione has been and the owl arrived while they were playing exploding snap.

"I don't really know." she replies.

* * *

**Monday, October 28th.**

Remus is sitting across from her at the kitchen table. Dawlish is on his left. Hermione hasn't seen John Dawlish since the last battle she fought before she was captured, and that memory seems to come to her from the other side of a gulf of darkness, distant and faded.

Dawlish has small, sharp blue eyes and hair cropped close to his head. He is neither thick nor thin, and there is a chip in his nose that looks like a bit of the bridge was blown off by a curse. Other than that, though, he looks much like a normal, middle aged man.

No one is smiling. She wonders when the last time she actually smiled was. Maybe with Harry and Ron. Maybe even before that. She doesn't remember. Her old DADA professor scrapes his hand across his face, dragging down to rest on the table. The wedding band on his left hand glints in the light.

"What's going on?" She asks slowly, filled with trepidation. "Are Harry and Ron," she licks her lips, her eyes dart around the kitchen. "Are they alright? Did something happen?"

She is positive that if something happened to Harry, the entirety of Wizarding England would know about it already, but she can think of no reason for the head of the auror office and the acting head of the Order of the Phoenix to call a private meeting with her. She can think of no other reason for the silencing charms Remus placed around the kitchen or the care that Dawlish put into ensuring that they were alone in the room. The sneakoscope is silent in the center of the table between them.

"As far as we know, they're fine, Hermione."

So Remus has heard from them, then. She tries not to be too jealous of this. "What is this meeting about, then, professor?"

He has told her to call him by his given name over and over again, but old habits die hard. The two across from her exchange a glance, like they are silently discussing who will speak next.

"Is it about Malfoy, then?" she asks because, while she knows her curse breaking work is important, coming up with one counter curse two weeks ago isn't enough to earn her this kind of special treatment. "I've already told you everything that I can remember and you've seen my memories." She addresses Lupin, although she is sure that Dawlish has also seen her memories by this point. Maybe they've called her in now because they want to know how Malfoy knew how many were there, or maybe they want to know why she didn't try to help Kingsley. She's been wondering that herself since it happened, and she is sure that Malfoy should not have been enough to stop her. She'll wait to be asked to tell them this, though, and she'll try not to embarrass herself too much when she owns up to her own cowardice.

"Of course, Hermione," Lupins voice is terse, but not unkind. "But things are still developing, you know. You see," he leans forward on his elbows, "Malfoy has been a bit uncooperative."

Dawlish lets out a snort and Hermione's eyes flicker toward his face.

"Ok," she replies slowly.

"Uncooperative is an understatement," explains Dawlish. His thick hands are spread on the table in front of him, his wand trapped between the wood of the table and his right palm. He rolls it vacantly. "Hasn't so much as told us his bloody name."

"Was Veritaserum uneffective?" she asks.

"You might say that, yeah," Dawlish replies and the way he says it confuses her.

"Why?"

"Bastard's a ruddy good occlumens. Veritaserum, our best legilimens. Nothing. He's a fucking locked box."

The last words are spat like a curse, and there is something they are not telling her, but she is clever enough to know what it is already. "You've been torturing him." Her voice is even when she speaks, and she meets Dawlish's gaze. For a long moment, no one says anything. They weren't planning on telling her, then.

Her mind flickers to the fiery manticore and she remembers the smell of Justin's hair on fire. Fred screaming. She remembers Hannah dying in her arms. They will never recover Luna's body. So many bodies. Bodies to pile high. Bodies to bury. Bodies to rot in dark, dark rooms under ancient stones.

So what if they've been torturing him? He is a death eater. He is the enemy. She imagines his face, cold and sharp as it had been in hogwarts, sneering out at her from behind a beaten-steal mask, but then the vision shifts and he is looking up at her from a tangle of ropes and dead bodies, and his face is smashed in and his nose is broken and pushed to one side and his eyes have no light in them. She has been carrying his three broken teeth in the pocket of her jeans for more than a week now because she keeps forgetting to take them out and now they feel like they are burning through the cloth and into her skin. They feel like accusation.

A cold weight settles in her stomach and her skin feels so filthy and so tight across her bones that she wants to scrape it all off of her. "He's been in your prison for what? ten days and you've been torturing him this whole time. When did you realize that he wouldn't talk? That veritaserum wouldn't work and your legilimens were powerless? Did you at least wait a day, or was it only a couple of hours after Tonks brought him in? I can't imagine you waited any longer than that."

"Hermione," Remus' ragged voice comes to her like a supplication, "No one's tortured anyone. I'll admit that we've been using different interrogation methods, but-"

Dawlish doesn't look away. His eyes are small, wet, and dark, but there is conviction behind them. "I do what I need to do to keep this country safe, Granger. This is a _war,_ girl. I don't expect you to understand, but-"

"You think I don't _know_ this is a war? " Her voice is calm and her whole body feels like it has been plunged into ice water, she wants to rip out her veins and roll them into a ball and shove them at Dawlish. _Look at this, you old monster_, she wants to say_, there is darkness in my veins now and your war put it there, _"But if you're here talking to me, obviously your grand plan to force information out of a person has failed. Do you honestly think that the wizarding community backs this sort of treatment of our prisoners? Do you think _Harry_ would support this? You are aware, I'm sure, how often torture results in false confessions, aren't you? Since that is the case, I can only assume that you are doing this for your own sadistic-"

"You were classmates with the death eater, but you aren't in school anymore, girl. Some things are bigger than-"

The idea that she is angry due to some misplaced sense of nostalgia causes her spine to stiffen. "Mr. Dawlish," she hisses, "I assure you that there is no love lost between your prisoner and myself. Has it ever occurred to you that torturing people for information is inherently wrong, base, and brings us down to the level of those we are trying to fight?"

On the table, the sneakoscope begins to spin, but because it doesn't make a sound, none of them notice it.

But Dawlish has thinned his lips into a cold grin. "Remus mentioned your _bleeding heart_, but if you're so clever, what do you think we should do? He's got information. He's _one of them. He's a bad guy_ and the longer he sits all happy shut up in his comfy cell, the more good guys are dying. So, what do you think, Granger? How should we proceed now?"

"Well, for starters, There is no difference between _us_ and _them_ if this is how we act! There is no 'good guy' or 'bad guy' if this is what war is. I'd realize that repeating the same method for three weeks and expecting a different result each time is utterly pointless and so moronic that it borders on lunatic."

Lupin makes a sound like a cross between a sigh and her name, but Dawlish raises his meaty left hand to silence him.

"Let's say we've done that now, Granger. What's the next step? Should we try to educate him? Teach him all about how he's been a very, very bad boy? This is the brat who lead Death Eaters into Hogwarts when he was sixteen. His mind's been made up since before any of this started." Dawlish is sneering at her, she ignores him.

"There's got to be something he wants. Offer a trade. He's used to comfortable living. Offer him benefits if he cooperates. Come on, Mr. Dawlish, rack your brains for a few minutes to consider the social implications of your behavior. It shouldn't be too painful, even for you.""

"What sort of benefits do you recommend, then?" He counters, ignoring her jab.

She shrugs, "Let him see his friends. We've got Marcus Flint still. Offer to let him see his old school buddy if he tells us what we want."

Dawlish shakes his head, "Won't work."

Her temper flares again. Dawlish is underestimating the power of friendship and that insults her on a personal level. "And why not?"

"He was sharing a cell with Flint and Sheridan Webb two nights ago."

"Why?" she cuts in, "I thought Azkaban wasn't keen on cell-sharing since the breakout."

He gives her a long look before answering, clearly annoyed at being interrupted, "First of all, that is not supposed to be civilian knowledge and I don't have to justify our actions to a child. Anyway, we thought he'd talk to Webb and Flint. We can get information out of both of them. Show him a bit of the good life before we got back to work on him. Encourage him to talk."

She can't help the disgusted look that crosses her face, "That's sick. That's really, really sick. This is common practice for you people, isn't it? You've got it down to a science."

"I don't hear you complaining when you fall asleep, safe in a warm bed, under our protection. Don't see you getting all upset every time we stop a battle before it even starts. This is the price of freedom, _girl_." His voice is lowering into growl now. "I have stopped curses and wars that would give you nightmares for the rest of your life. I've seen things that would turn your delicate little stomach."

"So why didn't it work, Mr. Dawlish?" Her voice is getting louder. On the table, the sneakoscope cracks and stops spinning as suddenly as it started. Her hands are curled into fists in her lap. "Why didn't you get your information from Flint and Webb? Didn't they talk?"

Dawlish sneers at her like they've been playing chess and he just saw a brilliant move where she left herself open. "Because the dead don't talk, _girl._"

This catches her off guard. "What?" Her eyebrows knit together.

"He killed them. Both of them."

"What? How?" she repeats. There is a piece missing and she hates her brain for choosing now, of all times, to slide back into the dark.

"He was alone with them for three minutes while the guard changed at midnight. When the fourth shift got there, they reported hearing screaming and a snapping sound. When they got to the holding cell, Flint was dead."

Her eyes drift down the the cracked sneakoscope. "How did he die?" she asks, and tries not to guess.

"Flint's neck was snapped."

"What happened to Webb?" she asks even though she is not sure she wants to know. She is starting to wonder if curiosity isn't a curse or a sickness inside of her.

"He died on the way to the apparition point on the island to take him to St. Mungo's. Bled out."

She doesn't have an answer to that.

"That's why we're here, Hermione," says Remus before Dawlish can say anything else. He looks slightly green and more than a bit upset.

"Because Webb died? That doesn't make any sense."

"No," says Dawlish, "because now we know what he wants."

"What?" she asks because she is Hermione Granger and she can't keep herself from asking questions, even when she knows she should.

"He spelled it out for us. Blood was all over the cell. Both guards on duty have asked for time off. Medical leave for the rest of the month. He wrote it out in Webb's blood on the walls when the guards took Webb out for transport."

"Then it should be easy," she retorts, "whatever he wrote out, just offer him that if he cooperates."

"That's why we're here, Hermione," Lupin says again.

Dawlish looks very seriously at her, then. All mirth and rage gone from his face, "He wrote out, 'Get Granger'."


	6. The Cell

**A/N: **To those of you who have reviewed this or any of my other stories: I love you. I'm thinking of whipping up some bonus content for people who review a lot. Is that acceptable on this site, does anyone know? I just don't really have enough words of gratitude to express how thankful I am for your support. I really wouldn't be doing this AT ALL if it weren't for you.

T/W: Implied torture

**Chapter 6: The Cell**

* * *

**Friday, November 1st.**

It is just past midnight and Hermione is sitting at the table again, eating a bowl of cereal and absent-mindedly practicing a wandless, nonverbal _lumos_ to herself. _Lumos!_ she thinks with as much ferocity as she can, and stares at her wand an arm's length away, but nothing happens. _Lumos_! the tip of her wand glows faintly, but other than that, nothing happens. _Lumos!_

A safe house in Southampton was raided three days ago, and since then Andromeda's house has seemed more like a meeting center than a quiet home in the country. It seems that Hermione is no longer the only one awake at night, and the two wizards sharing a bottle of Ogdens are talking quietly in the living room, but Hermione still has little trouble tuning them out to read. She isn't exactly complaining, though- it's nice to know that there are other living people close by. It makes everything seem more real.

The chair across from her scrapes back and Mallory Bullstrode sits heavily in it.

"Do you ever sleep?" Grumbles the short-haired witch.

Hermione smiles tiredly, "Sometimes. Do you?"

Mallory chuckles darkly and shrugs noncommittally, "Sure. When I've taken a potion or six."

Hermione winces sympathetically.

An awkward silence falls between them for sixteen ticks of the clock above the doorframe.

"You did well. Last week, I mean. In Galloway." Mallory stares down her long nose at Hermione, her expression is unreadable.

"Oh," Hermione can feel her cheeks reddening with pleasure, "Thanks."

"That was a good bit of magic."

"It was nothing," she mumbles to the table and her knuckles, "it was only a counterspell that I read about in this book on different types of arcane _Ingnibus._ It wasn't even that complicated to translate. Anyone with a passing knowledge of runes and latin could have figured it out."

"Right. Well, I've never studied runes. Thought they were a waste of time in school, and they weren't needed for auror training, so there you go. But, Igni_bus_?" echoes Mallory, her eyebrows rising slightly, "You mean that there's more than one firebeast spell?"

Hermione resists the urge to launch into a lecture about the various incarnations of sentient fire magic, and instead says, "Yes, but that counterspell should work for most of them."

"Well, that's something, then."

They are quiet for a few more moments and then Hermione asks, "What house were you in?" mostly to break the silence.

"Slytherin," is the immediate reply. Hermione makes a face and Mallory laughs. It is a light sound- a girlish giggle that hardly suits her harsh features. "All of you Gryffindors have the same reaction." She runs a hand through her hair and it stands up straight, which reminds Hermione of Harry, which hurts her heart. "We're not all, you know, fawning over the dark lord."

Hermione narrows her eyes.

"Oh, don't look at me like that."

"Fear of the name-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, but you don't have to look at me like I'm going to hex you into next Tuesday. I'm a half blood, you know. They wouldn't want me, anyway."

"Volde-"

"Yeah, but I'm a pretty big fan of my mum, anyway, so all this 'away with the muggles' rubbish doesn't sit well with me." She scrunches her features in a way that reminds Hermione immediately of Crookshanks, and she finds herself liking this girl more and more by the second.

"Are you related to Millicent Bullstrode?" Hermione asks.

Mallory grins. "Yeah. She's my baby sister."

"She and Pansy Parkinson were close, weren't they?"

Mallory winces, "Yeah, they were. It came as quite a shock when she sided with her father, you know. She used to spend holidays with us before all of this started. The rest of my family's in hiding, of course, and my sister asked Pansy to come with her. It was a serious blow to Milly when she didn't even answer the owl."

Hermione feels a new and unexpected pity for Millicent Bullstrode unfurling in her chest.

"I'm sorry," she says simply, "I didn't know."

Mallory smiles gently, "Of course not. You Gryffindors have always tended to keep to yourself. Anyway, about that counter-curse."

"What about it?"

"Can you teach it to me?"

"Of course," Hermione is just glad that all her reading is turning out to be useful.

"Great," Mallory's chair scrapes the floor as she stands, "Let's go."

"Now?" Hermione had assumed this was a hypothetical request, for some yet-determined point in the future, and not to be executed at twelve-twenty-four in the morning.

"Sure," Mallory shrugs, "I'm not going to sleep anytime soon. Are you?"

"No," Hermione replaces her bookmark in the book, "I guess not. Let's go."

* * *

**Tuesday, November 5th.**

"Why do you actually have to go?" Ginny asks watching Hermione in the mirror from her own bed. "Yourself, I mean."

"I already told you," Hermione sighs as she attempts to tame her hair back from her face and into a tight bun. _Don't give him anything to grab hold of, Granger_, Dawlish had warned the day before. _You AREN'T going to get close enough for him to grab you, but if you muck up badly enough, the less he can grab, the better._ "They tried that. Polyjuiced an Auror to look like me, but he didn't buy it."

"I'll be with her, Ginny." Mallory is seated on Hermione's bed. "Well, at least as long as I can. Dawlish thinks Malfoy's going to want to talk with you alone." She waggles her eyebrows as though she'd just said something scandalous, instead of something mildly upsetting for everyone in the room.

"Grand." Ginny says and rolls her eyes, "Yeah, brilliant. Leave Hermione Granger alone with a crazy guy who killed the last two people he was left alone with. Also, not to mention that he is a Death Eater, an asshole, and a-"

"I'm not going to be in the cell with him," Hermione sighs and gives up on smoothing out her hair. She would very much like a bottle of sleakeasy's right now, but hair products, and cosmetics in general, are difficult to buy, and out of her price range now, anyway. All potions ingredients are in short supply these days. Death Eaters take what they can when they want it and the Order buys the rest, which means that there is little left over for unnecessary products, so she does her best with a wet comb and manual labor. It isn't enough, but it will have to do.

"You should just cut it," suggests Mallory cheerfully from the bed, "much easier. And you've got a cute face. You could pull it off. Short hair, I mean."

* * *

Dawlish is waiting for them when Mallory and Hermione walk into the kitchen. He looks her over once, nods sharply, and pulls a wad of cloth out of his pocket. He unwraps a spiny looking seashell.

"We've got a minute or two before it activates," he tells them, checking his wristwatch. "So let's go over a few things before we get there. We're going to be met at the apparition point by two guards, who will escort us into the compound. Under no circumstances are you to wander off on your own, Granger," he gives her a hard look. "And try not to give the guards who meet us your speech about interrogation techniques. These witches and wizards deal with bullshit every day of their god damned lives and they're going out of their way to show us around."

Hermione opens her mouth to tell him that the prisoners that are being tortured almost certainly have it harder than their guards, but Mallory elbows her sharply in the side and so she holds her tongue.

"They'll collect your wand and run some positive ID tests just to be safe, and then they'll take you to the holding cell. Again, no bleeding heart antics, Granger. They'll just waste time. You'll have half an hour to talk, but you can leave whenever you want if you start to get twitchy. Just don't, for the love of Merlin, get within arm's reach of him. Ask him the questions we talked about, and then get out of there. We don't know what he's capable of, or what he wants from you. This is a _preliminary meeting_. We _don't_ negotiate with terrorists, Granger, so don't ask him what he wants in exchange for his cooperation." He glances at his watch. "Right, time to go. Everyone, get a finger on the murex."

"The what, Dawlish?" Tonks is suddenly leaning against the doorframe. Her hair is bubblegum pink today.

Hermione and Mallory obediently put one finger on the shell in Dawlish's palm.

"The shell. The shell is called a murex. It's a Lace Murex." the auror growls, "And what are you doing here, Tonks?"

"Came to have a chat with my mum, and figured I'd see our brave interrogators off. Since when do you know about seashells?"

Tonks' cheeks are pink and she has a large mug of tea in one hand, and Hermione's mind alights on the change. "I thought you preferred coffee, Tonks?" she asks before she can stop herself.

The smile widens on Tonks' face and she looks like she is about to say something when Hermione feels the pull behind her navel and then she is gone in a whirl of color.

* * *

Hermione is cold and wet.

She has been cold and wet for the last half of an hour, at least. The apparition point is, apparently, only above water at low tide. When they arrived at the island estate of Azkaban, they found themselves standing thigh-deep in ice-cold water, and all three began splashing loudly toward the gray waiting figures on the shore.

Everything on the island is gray, the great squat structure of Azkaban a dark gray across a smudged gray sky, and surrounded by water that is such a deep gray that it is almost back. It looks like a painting with all of the color sucked out of it. On either side of her, even the ruddy-faced Dawlish and Mallory's appraising blue eyes look washed out and dull as ditchwater.

When they reach the pebbled beach, they are all already shivering.

"Right this way, sir," says one of the guards to Dawlish with a sharp salute. The guard is a tall man in a very simple dark gray robe standing next to another very tall man in an identical very simply dark gray robe.

Hermione takes some solace in the knowledge that, even if the ministry is no longer under their control, Azkaban and its guards still are.

There is no time to cast a warming charm before they are lead inside. The building looks much smaller on the inside than it did on the outside. They are lead down a narrow hallway to a small room where Hermione is now sitting, shivering in a cold metal chair, hesitating to place her wand in the palm that is stretched out for it. The door they came in through is locked by the second gaurd.

'Hermione," whispers Mallory, who has already handed over her own.

Slowly, Hermione slides her wand into the outstretched hand and watches as it is dropped into a thick manila envelope with her name already written on the front. As soon as the envelope is closed again, it vanishes.

"This way, please," the second guard says, as he sticks a thick iron key directly into a patch of wall that is identical to every other section of wall around them. A door materializes and swings open with a scream of protest. Hermione walks through silently between Mallory and Dawlish. Once they are all through, the guard behind them closes the door, and locks them in. Hermione wonders how many doors like this they've passed already.

The hall around them is dark, lit by glowing bricks in the wall, spaced every few feet and radiating an eerie blue-gray light. They walk in silence for five minutes and as they walk, Hermione notices the sound of rushing water getting gradually louder as they walk on.

And then, very suddenly, Dawlish walks through a sheet of water that she had not noticed until it was directly in front of her. "Go on," Mallory whispers, giving her a small push on her back.

So Hermione walks through and the water chills her to the bone and Mallory emerges behind her, looking wet and annoyed. "I'll never get used to that," Mallory hisses. "It's to dispel illusions and so they can keep track of us. We'll leave footprints wherever we go while we're in here."

Hermione glances down and, sure enough, there are two sets of footprints ahead of her own feet.

* * *

"If anything happens that makes you even remotely uncomfortable, loosen your grip on the ball," the guard recites as he holds a gray ball out to her. "It will lock down the cell, effectively ending communication and we will be alerted."

She takes it. It is soft and warm and her fingers close around it.

"Just don't drop it," adds Mallory.

"What happens if I drop it?"

"The entire prison goes into lockdown mode," answers Dawlish, "which we would like to avoid if we would like to leave this week."

"Ah."

"There is a chair provided to you. The prisoner will be able to hear you and see you, but will be unable to approach the bars that serve as a physical barrier between you. Despite this, please do not pass the line on the floor. Please do not move the chair, pass anything to the prisoner, or approach the walls. When you are ready to leave, simply loosen your grip on the ball or transfer it to your other hand. If you do not signal for termination of the meeting before the allocated half hour, at the end of the allotted time, we will come in to collect you. Do you have any questions?"

"No."

They stop at a bare stretch of wall, where a different key causes yet another door to melt out of the stone. Hermione wonders how many doors they have passed like this without her noticing. The ball is held loosely in her right her fist as she walks through. The door closes behind her, the tumblers scream back into place, and then she is staring at a blank patch of wall. She clears her throat, turns, and walks on.

There is a chair in the center of the hallway and she approaches it. Beyond the chair, there is a thick black line painted on the dark gray flagstones of the floor. Her eyes trail down the hall and into the cell at the end of the hall. The cell is the same width as the rest of the hallway, about six feet across and maybe six feet deep. On one side of the cell, there is a simple cot with a mass of blankets on it. She thinks the cell is empty at first, but then what she mistook for blankets shifts and rises to a sitting position.

"Hello, Malfoy."

He doesn't answer at first, but this doesn't surprise her. The lights in the wall don't give her a good look into his cell, but his eyes are shining in her direction.

She sighs heavily, sits in the chair, and crosses her arms and legs. "We only have half an hour to talk, you know," she points out, "It won't do either of us any good if you just sit there not answering me." He scoots to the edge of his mattress and she can see his face now.

He looks much the same as when she last saw him, but his face is dark with fresh bruises.

"Did you break your nose again when you fell at Grimmauld place, or is it newer than that?"

He reaches up to his face and touches his nose, like he'd forgotten it was there at all, but he still doesn't answer.

She breathes out sharply through her nose. "This is absolutely ludicrous." She mumbles, more to herself than to anyone else. She is still shivering.

His eyes dart away from her then, and his face turns toward one corner. He nods at the corner, like he is greeting someone else, and then turns back to her. "Hello, Granger." he says around a mouthful of still-broken teeth.

Insanely, she thinks about telling him about the teeth in her trunk, like she should return them to him or at least let him know where they are. Clearly, she is more cold, tired, and stressed that she realized. "Why did you want to see me, Malfoy?" she asks instead.

"Because I have what you want and if I don't make demands, it looks suspicious if I am honest."

"Oh, please. I don't buy for a second that you only wanted to see me so that you look more honest. Don't say such stupid things. Don't embarrass us both with your idiocy."

He grins at her through the bars and in the shadows he looks like a beast, like a monster. _Oh grandmother,_ she thinks to herself because she is tired and cold_, what a big smile you have_. "Cleverest witch of our age."

But by the way he says it, she isn't sure that he is talking about her, or anyone else who is real for that matter.

"I have demands, if you want my help." His eyes are unfocused and he whispers something under his breath.

Hermione expected this. Was prepared, "We don't negotiate with terrorists," she says without any real passion or conviction. It sounds stupid, pigheaded and counterproductive even as she says it.

"Then all your friends will die," he replies simply. "I assure you that I do not ask for anything that cannot be given freely."

"So what are your demands?"

His lips move silently for a while, and he looks like he is trying to sort out what words he wants to use out loud. Like he needs to try them out before he can say anything. Finally, after a painfully long duration in which Hermione can only watching him mutter to himself like a madman,he says: "Exoneration. A full pardon."

She almost drops the ball. "You're asking quite a lot, Malfoy."

"You will learn, Granger, that I will always get what I want. Where's Potter?" The tone is stronger, more accusing now.

The question catches her off guard. This is the first time he has mentioned Harry and it is the last thing she expected him to do. In her head, she can hear the echo of Dawlish saying _Don't let him ask questions. He'll see it as you relinquishing power if he gets to ask questions_. "Why do you ask?"

"Because it is uncharacteristic of him to leave his favorite little mudblood all alone in the big bad world, and this is the second time I have seen you without the Boy Who Will Not Die. So, where is he?"

She tilts her chin up defiantly and is glad that he gave her a way to avoid the question. "I won't be called that, Malfoy."

"Why ever not? You have never been bothered by it like the Weasley fool. Is he still hanging on to your ankles, or have he and Potter finally come forward with their scandalous and illicit affair? A word, a name. Fear of the name, fear of the name, or have you forgotten the old fool's tattoo?"

She stares at him, open-mouthed. So he really is mad, then. She can't say she's sorry he's been unhinged, given what an ass he was before, and she doesn't miss his personality, but it is strange to see someone she thought she knew so visibly undone.

"Gaping suits fish and morons. Lets the flies in. But perhaps you are uncultured enough not to know that, Granger."

And just like that, he is back. She actually stands then, and takes a step forward because she is going to hex him for being such a sorry-

"Not past the line, Granger."

She pauses at his warning tone.

"And stop reaching for a wand that isn't there. You can't curse me with empty pockets and you'll only look a fool for trying. Don't embarrass us both with your idiocy. We only have half an hour to talk, you know."

"Right," she replied as coldly as she can, "then I'd like some information."

"What will you give me in return?"

"I don't have to give you anything." Another scripted line. When Dawlish watches the memory later, he should be pleased.

"Bleeding heart Granger doesn't want to help for the sake of helping?"

"I don't have a reason to help you."

"But what if I am in need of rescuing?"

The question is asked innocently enough, but it hits her like a slap in the face. It is her fault that he is in this situation- she knew that from the beginning, but now there is no doubt that he knows it, too. That he blames her. That her daring rescue in the wood was worse than worthless- he seems even worse off now than he was before she intervened. "Ask for something specific," she grinds out. Dawlish will kill her for this, but she can't help asking. "No guarantees about anything."

He thinks for a moment. "Teeth," he says eventually.

For one crazy moment, she thinks that he means the teeth that are still in her trunk but then he lifts his hand to his mouth and runs his index and middle fingers across his top row of broken teeth. His fingers are long and thin like spider legs.

"I cannot articulate the coordinates Dawlish wants without them."

"So, you're pretty much not going to tell me anything until you get your way."

"Cleverest witch of our age," he mocks again.

"Then we're done here," and she stands to go.

"But we are not yet out of time, Granger," he says softly. "I'm sure you are dying for some intellectual stimulation."

"That's presumptuous of you," she snorts.

"It was nice of your friend to come with you," he says suddenly, coldly, and she pauses mid-turn.

He can only mean Mallory, but how does he know that she is waiting? How, also does he know that Mallory is her friend- Hermione isn't even sure of that title herself. "How do you know?" she asks.

She sees him then as a beast, resting languid in a cell, but only until he finds a way out. The predator smiles a sharp-toothed smile. "I can smell him on you. Like I can smell your fear. Your shampoo. The coffee you drank this morning. I can smell it on anyone who comes in here or wherever I go when they take me out for our walks and our talks. Brand Rickman has a new daughter, wish him congratulations on my behalf on your way out. He hasn't been in to see me in days. Galba has a trouble with smoking. Like a chimney. Like a pyre. So tell me about the outside world. It's dull now. If a dog bites, they stop taking it out for walks and talks. So talk with me so that I may walk with you."

It isn't a really answer at all, but he did say _he_, which must mean he is speaking about Dawlish? "What do you want to know, Malfoy?"

"What month is it?"

She considers lying to him, but what is the advantage to that? He might be testing her. It seems the sort of thing he would do, just to see if she'll tell him the truth, and maybe she'll feel a bit less guilty for his current predicament if she gives him this much. "It's November."

"November," he echoes, "It's November." His eyes close and his head tilts back like he is savoring the taste of it in his mouth. She gives him a moment with this before his head snaps back down to her, "what day of the week is it, Granger?"

"First, one of mine." She snatches the chance before it is gone, "Why did you want to see me, of all people?"

His head tilts lazily back towards her, "Ah, now that is the question that is first on your tongue, of course. But I counter with this- whose sense of fair play and mercy should I trust? Certainly not a ministry auror's. Potter listens to you, councilwoman, and his approval is a war. So why not you? Why ever not you? Always you? There is the added benefit of the indisputable truth of your dear friend, proof of who you are. Besides," his eyes narrow like he has caught her in a trap that she still cannot see, "I am in need of rescuing."

She considers this for a moment. It is disappointing to know there isn't a bigger, more important reason, but maybe her importance to Harry is reason enough. She nods once. "It's a Tuesday."

"A Tuesday in November. November, the Tuesdayth."

"Malfoy," she asks and when he mutters to himself instead of answering she tries again, louder, "Malfoy."

But he is lost to her now, she knows, gone into his own mind and murmuring _November november november_ like it is his name. Like it is something he will forget it he ceases to speak it.

She shifts the ball to her other hand. He stops muttering to himself and he looks her in the face and his gaze doesn't waver. "Don't check the corners, Granger," he hisses so quietly that she has to hold her breath to catch the words, "I don't think he wants to be seen."

The door swings open. Malfoy's eyes follow their approach to her chair, his expression flat and his gaze is hard. _Grandmother, what big eyes you have_. She stands and walks toward the guards and ignores the prickling of his stare on the back of her head.

* * *

The guards lead them next to a separate waiting room, through a door that materializes out of a blank, slimy stretch of wall. There is a stiff looking couch against one wall, and two large chairs and a potted plant against the other. Hermione gets her wand back from one of the guards and Dawlish immediately hands her a little bottle. She realizes that this is so she can siphon out her memory. The action is anticipated- they discussed it before any of this started- but it still catches her off guard. She had hoped she would have a bit longer before the events of the day were only a faded image in her mind. Dawlish is watching her expectantly.

"Well I'm not going to do it with you watching," she huffs out.

He looks like he wants to argue with her, but with a grumble to himself, he turns his back on her. "Don't take too long," he growls, and goes out to join Mallory and the guards.

She pulls the long strand of memory out by the tip of her wand, and only spares a brief moment to herself to watch the swirling condense before Mallory sticks her head in. "Hermione? Dawlish is getting antsy. I think he has to use the loo."

Dawlish's response is loud and vulgar.

"Well if you don't," Mallory quips, "then I have utterly no idea why you are acting so impatient."

* * *

They follow their own footprints out in a single file line again, and Hermione keeps her eyes glued to the floor, trying to match her footprints to those that she made on the way in. It is difficult to accomplish, though as her prints are merged in places with five other sets. The second set of prints she can identify besides own are Mallory's . They are small and pointed inwards. Third are Dawlish's, wide and flat, unevenly spaced. The two guards must be the fourth and fifth ones she sees, because they have the same treadmarks on them, since their boots look identical. The sixth set of prints is larger than the others, and wider spaced. This is when she realizes that there are only five of them walking down the corridor.


	7. The Thing Behind the Glass

**A/N:** In case you are wondering why this is late (or if you did not even realize it was late- guess what? It's late!): I THREW UP SEVEN TIMES YESTERDAY AND I STILL WENT TO WORK BECAUSE I AM JUST THAT INTENSE ABOUT TEACHING KIDS STUFF. Also, I had six classes in a row, so I had no time to work on editing during the day, and by the time I got home, I just wanted to wallow in my own ennui. Which I did. Anyway, I'm sorry.

**Chapter 7: The Thing Behind the Glass**

* * *

**Friday, November 8th.**

"I can go!" she shouts. Her hair is expanding around her face and her cheeks are heating up、but she doesn't notice and wouldn't care even if she did. "I went last time and it was _fine!"_

"Hermione, please relax," Lupin raises his hands in supplication. He is seated at the kitchen table. Dawlish is leaning against the counter, his arms folded across his chest and his legs spread in a battle stance. The window behind him is pitch black, even though it's only just after five. The days are getting shorter and the nights are getting colder.

"And a fat load of good you'll be to us if you decide to get yourself killed or captured!" Dawlish yells back. "Don't you understand? We need you for negotiations now!"

She is still standing in the doorway, where she has been for the last five minutes as the conversation has gotten more and more heated. She tried to be polite at first, she tried to _rationally_ and _calmly _explain to Dawlish that she didn't understand why she wasn't invited to the planning meeting, because she was as useful as the rest of them.

"You'll need me more if they use the manticora again! And I thought you didn't negotiate with _terrorists_, or has Malfoy been upgraded to just plain old torture victim?"

The last of the aurors who were spending the evening in the kitchen have disappeared to other rooms, carrying half-eaten sandwiches and scalding cups of tea. Dawlish is famed for his temper, and none of them want to feel the wrath of it. Hermione, on the other hand, doesn't give a fig what is reputation says. He is being stupid, and Hermione cannot abide stupidity.

"Bulstrode can do the wandwork, if need be," Dawlish barrels through the beginning of her diatribe. "But they won't be using it anymore since it didn't work in their favor last time!"

Hermione feels a quick sting of betrayal at this. But no, the logic in her brain pushes back, of course Mallory can fend off the fire beasts as well as she can. What Dawlish is saying makes sense, logically, but she can't stand the idea of being out of action for much longer. It has been three days since the last time she left the house and there isn't even anything new to read. Rage flares up again, and this time she hangs on to it. She is starting to feel alive again. Her brain is slowly spinning back into rotation. "And for Malfoy? Nothing to say to that?"

"Hermione," Lupin places a hand on her elbow, "Please. We're not asking you to sit here and do nothing. We need good wands on healing duty, too."

Dawlish grumbles something, but Hermione stops listening. There is a shape moving just beyond the window behind Dawlish. It's only a dark outline against the inky black, but she is sure that it is there, up against the glass.

Her wand is in her hand and she shouts "Protego!" just as the glass explodes inward. The power of her spell blasts Dawlish backwards. Lupin and Dawlish have their wands out and aurors are rushing back into the room. Spells are thrown out into the darkness, illuminating Andromeda's lawn in green and red light. A group runs out to check the lawn, but they find nothing. It is chalked up to an accident.

When the confusion dies down, Dawlish walks up to her, "Fast reflexes, girl," he commends, "I suppose I let my temper go. It wouldn't be the first time I...lost control like that. It wasn't very professional of me." He looks embarrassed and still angry. "My orders stand, but I shouldn't have..." he growls, looking for a word, "lost it like that. I'm sorry." The words seem to taste bad in his mouth, but he spits them out anyway, like penance.

She nods mutely. Dawlish claps her on the shoulder and edges past her into the living room to talk to a group of aurors who are waiting for him there. She lowers herself shakily into one of the chairs. The window has been repaired and she is alone in the kitchen. When she rubs her hands over her face, she realizes that they are shaking and so she clasps them around her wand. She rubs small circles around its base with her thumb so hard that the wood beneath her fingers bends gently.

She knows that whatever caused the window to break, it wasn't Dawlish. It wasn't even anything in the kitchen. It was something outside. She knows this because, for half a heartbeat, she saw it. A long and sharp looking ink-black hand reaching for Dawlish as the glass shattered around it.

* * *

Sometime after midnight, Mallory slides into the seat across from her.

"Hey," she says as she places her cup gingerly on the table. She glances at Hermione's face. "Ok, I know Dawlish can be scary when he's mad, but he gets over it pretty quick, you know."

"Hm?" Hermione looks up from her hands, confused by Mallory's words.

"I mean, you don't have to look so scared. I heard about the window thing," she nods at the window, "but I mean, there was this one time where he slammed his mug down so hard on the table that the handle broke and he punched the table. Broke two knuckles I think. It was hilarious. So, just relax, yeah?"

"Oh," Hermione realizes now that Mallory must think she is afraid of Dawlish or something else equally ridiculous. "Oh, no. That's not," but she trails off. How can she explain the hand she saw reaching through the window towards Dawlish without sounding absolutely crazy? The aurors searched the yard completely afterwards, and they hadn't found a thing. But Mallory is looking curiously at her.

"What," Mallory prods gently, "What happened?" She leans forward slightly.

"Just before Dawlish-"

"Ah! Shit!" Mallory jumps to her feet, slapping at her wrist.

"What? What is it?" Hermione is on her feet, too, and her wand is waving blindly around the kitchen.

"Ow! Fuck!" Mallory inhales sharply through her teeth and pulls her hand away from her wrist, revealing a deep cut, shining with thick red blood. "I was just sitting there and- shit that stings!- I must've snagged a sliver or something!"

Together they glance at the table and, sure enough, there is a thick piece of wood about as long as Hermione's pinky sticking up sharply.

"Fuck. I'm going to go mend this," grumbles Mallory, "Bad luck to bleed before a spat."

And then she is gone. Hermione looks long and hard at the table and then, following a hunch, she gets down on all fours and crawls under the table. It is dark underneath it, save for the light shining through a thin hole. She sticks her finger into the hole, and the wood around it is smooth, like someone punched a metal nail through the wood and took it out quickly. Quickly, she crawls out, and looks at the chunk of wood sticking up. She had been sitting at this table for more than an hour now, and in the time, she hadn't noticed any irregularities in the wood.

The hair on the nape of her neck rises as she feels eyes on her. She whirls, but she is alone in the kitchen, as least as far as she can tell. Slowly, a new suspicion begins to form, but it is so outlandish and strange, that she will need to test the theory further before it becomes a true hypothesis. She rubs her thumb over the base of her wand and points it at the table. "Reparo!" she thinks, and she is rewarded with a small snap as the wood retreats back into place.

* * *

**Saturday, November 9th. **

Justin Finch-Fletchley is seated across the table from her. He looks pale to the point of turning green and every few seconds his Adam's apple bobs up and down as he swallows dryly. He is scared, Hermione knows this, but she is still too bitter about not going herself to want to offer him much comfort. This is the first time Hermione has seen him since the last battle. He looks completely fine. Even his hair has been regrown, and it falls in soft golden curls around his face. It's hair she would have been jealous of, had she been prone to that sort of vanity.

"It's a nice day, isn't it?" He says eventually. His voice wavers.

Hermione glances out the window. It is just past noon, and the sun is shining, but it is deceptively cold, which she knows because she tried to sit outside with Crookshanks that morning, but after about five minutes, he yowled to go back in. "Lovely." she answers dismissively and sips her tea.

"Have you read anything interesting lately?" He asks.

He must be very desperate for distraction if he's willing to ask her about what she's been reading, and so she takes pity on him. "Quite a lot. How about you? Read anything of note?"

He shakes his head and laughs nervously. "I'm not much of a reader, I guess. I do like movies, though."

"Oh," she says because she figures she should respond, even if she doesn't know what to say.

"Yeah. Like, muggle films, you know? Of course muggle films. Anyway, I used to really like watching war movies. You know what I mean? But I never thought- never once-" and his voice cracks again.

She reaches across the table and lays her hand over his. It is cold and sweaty, but she ignores the unpleasantness. "It's going to be fine, Justin. _You_ are going to be fine. You've done this before. You know what it's like."

"Only once," he confesses, and he looks like he's going to cry, "and you know how well that went."

She squeezes his hand and is still trying to think of how to answer when Mallory tromps into the room. Her short hair has been brushed flat and her lips are dark red. Hermione wonders, absently, why she is wearing makeup.

"Come on, kid," she says, and places a hand on Justin's shoulder. "It's showtime." She glances over at Hermione, and offers a lopsided smile. "Hold down the fort, and with any luck, we won't see you until tomorrow."

Hermione nods in response. "I'll see you tomorrow, then," she says.

Mallory unwraps their port key and she and Justin vanish.

A few minutes later, Ginny wanders into the kitchen, and takes the seat opposite Hermione that Justin just vacated. The clock above the kitchen sink ticks loudly and Ginny chews her nails.

The sky is turning orange when Andromeda enters the kitchen. Today she is dressed in simple black robes and her long blonde hair is pulled back from her face in a severe bun. She places a large wicker basket on the table and Ginny and Hermione help her take out bandages and salves and eleven bottles of potions. The four that Hermione places on the wooden table are all labeled _Essence of Dittany_, but Ginny removes a bottle of _Skele-Gro _and two blood replenishing potions. The rest are three calming draughts and a single bottle of Wiggenweld Potion.

"Be careful with those," Andromeda warns Ginny, "That's the last Wiggenweld we've got."

When the medical station is set up in the kitchen, the three witches stare apprehensively at the back door.

"Now what do we do?" Ginny asks.

"We wait," Andromeda's voice is gentle, but the lines in her face betray her nerves, "and we either wait for the injured or word from Lupin."

"And you do this every time?" Ginny asks incredulously.

"Every time." Andromeda replies, and for the first time, Hermione sees her shoulders sag, like the weight of the world rests there. Hermione realizes, then, that Andromeda's daughter and Andromeda's husband are both out fighting, and if all goes well, she won't see them until tomorrow, and she will only see them sooner if things go wrong.

* * *

Ginny is dozing at the table, Andromeda is knitting, and Hermione is reading at 11:37 that evening, when Lupin's patronus bursts through the wall.

"We are safe," it says, "Dawlish will want to talk with Hermione in the morning, and Tonks sends her love," before vanishing into the air.

Andromeda lets out a sharp sniff, Ginny relaxes against the table, and Hermione closes her eyes, thanking god or good luck that the news wasn't worse.

* * *

**Wednesday, November 13th.**

Hermione transfers the teeth from the pocket of her jeans to a pillbox her mother gave her years ago and then slips the pillbox into her beaded bag where she knows she won't lose it.

She wears boots and casts a water repellant charm on herself before they leave. She wears a full winter cloak. She follows the guards into the long brick structure, walking in single-file between Dawlish and Mallory. She hands her wand over without being asked. She walks down another narrow hallway and she thinks about how fortunate it is that she doesn't mind narrow places when they walk through the waterfall. She is soaked to the bone again because the water repelling charm doesn't last through the Thief's Downfall.

They stop at a bare stretch of wall, and she still can't see any difference between this patch and the rest of the wall stretching in either direction. One of the guards- and she can't even tell if it's the same guard as her last visit- holds the small gray ball out to her again. "If anything happens that makes you even remotely uncomfortable, loosen your grip on the ball. It will lock down the cell, effectively ending communication and we will be alerted."

It is soft and it is warm and it feels familiar in her hand- almost weightless. "Got it," she replies. Mallory and Dawlish are silent.

"There is a chair provided to you. The prisoner will be able to hear you and see you, but will be unable to approach the bars that serve as a physical barrier between you. Despite this, please do not pass the line on the floor. Please do not move the chair, pass anything to the prisoner, or approach the walls. When you are ready to leave, simply loosen your grip on the ball or transfer it to your other hand. If you do not signal for termination of the meeting before the allocated half hour, at the end of the allotted time, we will come in to collect you. Do you have any questions?"

"No."

The door creaks open, but before she can walk through it, Dawlish puts a hand on her shoulder. "Don't forget what we talked about." His warning is barely more than a whisper.

She nods, and enters the room.

At the end of the short hall, Malfoy is sitting up on his cot, his legs planted firmly on the floor and his hands laced in his lap. He watches, silent, as she sits down in the chair. "Hello, Malfoy," she sighs.

He doesn't reply. Doesn't even blink. He just stares at her with his flat, pale eyes. There is more hair on his head than there was the last time she was here, and it shines like a faint golden halo around his head. His left eye is so swollen and bruised that it cannot open. The cheek under it is sunken sharply in. His nose is still crookedly smashed against his face. She swallows hard and looks away from him.

"It worked," she says next, because they only have half an hour and she isn't going to waste any more time that she has to. "Whatever you told Dawlish, it worked."

He nods once and closes his good eye.

"We-"

He raises a finger to his lips and she falls silent, very aware of the sound of her breath going in and out and the way the fabric of her cloak shifts as she moves restlessly. After a few moments, though, she can hear it, too: It is not a sound, not exactly. It is more the absence of sound, or the movement of air around a body. Perhaps it is in her imagination, but she feels precisely the way she felt alone in the kitchen the week before. Fear prickles along her arms, raising goosepimples. She wonders if he knows something she doesn't, but before she can think how to phrase the question, he speaks.

"Hello, Granger," he says. She jumps in her seat. His voice is rusty from disuse, but the words are crisp. "I did not mean to frighten you."

The words are not quite an apology at all, but she wouldn't have expected one, anyway. "We want to know where else he might be."

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific than that, Granger." He is completely still, other than the movement of his mouth when he speaks and if she did not see his lips open and shut, she would have doubted even that. His eye remains fixed on her, and it does not waver. He is waiting for her next move.

She folds her arms across her chest. "Kingsley Shacklebolt. The Minister of Magic." He knows that's why she's here, and so this must be intentional. He is playing dumb for some reason, but she doesn't know what. He's had a week to think about this, probably, to figure out what he's going to say next to her, and she won't let him stay ahead of her like this.

"Ah yes. The muggle-lover." If there was any emotion at all behind the words, she would be able to guess at what he is thinking, but he sounds like he is reading off of a script and she doesn't know what he means. She wants to ask, but Dawlish told her not to show any interest, if she can help it. _We don't want him feeling like he has something you want. You are a mouthpiece, Granger. Nothing else. Don't let him think otherwise for a moment. _His lips move silently, like he is talking to himself, but they are moving too quickly for her to make out words.

Her lips thin and she grinds her teeth. "Where is he?" she barks out. "There weren't any prisoners at all in the house in Dorchester. Only a dozen low-level recruits. We will find the minister and to do that, we need another address."

"Do you like my teeth, Granger?" he asks, and his mouth widens, exposing two rows of familiar teeth. The gesture isn't a smile and she thinks about dogs baring their teeth in threat.

"We need another address," she repeats, because Dawlish warned her not to get off topic.

"The teeth, Granger," he edges forward on his mattress, leaning toward her, into the light. He holds a hand before his face, like he is framing his mouth for her to see, but all she notices is that there are no fingernails on his left hand, only black scabs.

She lowers her eyes. "Very nice, Malfoy."

"Indeed. The wonders of modern magic never cease to amaze. It was dittany, of course. Rinsed my mouth out with Dittany. It will be better. Can't grow them out, rinse your mouth out with Dittany, it'll be better." He smiles then, exposing all of his perfect, intact teeth.

She is losing him again, his eyes are alive, glimmering with a light that is not at all sane. "Malfoy, we need another address. Malfoy!" she says sharply.

His eyes drift languidly to hers, gray and unseeing, "Cleverest witch of our age."

"An address, Malfoy. If you aren't going to cooperate, I'm going to have to leave." she warns. "We have half an hour to talk, but if they look through my memories and see that I'm not getting anywhere with you, they might not let me come back."

He waves a hand sluggishly before his face, "They have no choice. It is you or the silence and life is very long in silence and your Muggle Lover does not have a long silence." His grin is almost drunken, sloppy on his features. "You will come back because they are desperate for a sign."

She sighs and glances down at the ball in her hand, but before she can change her grip on it, he says sharply, "Where's Potter? Where's the beacon of hope in these dark times?"

The question is so different from his previous tone that she almost answers, but catches herself. "Malfoy, we need an address."

"And what should I ask for in return, pray? What will you give me?"

_Maybe for them not to tear out your fingernails. Maybe for them to fix your nose. _"I can't answer that, Malfoy." but her gaze drifts back to his hand, back in his lap.

His eyes follow hers down and he raises his hand before his face, like he is examining his fingernails. "No, I think not, but it is an idea. I want a newspaper. A _Daily Prophet_. From November. Is it still November?" His gaze does not leave his hand.

"Yes, Malfoy," she says slowly.

"Is it still a Tuesday?"

She pauses before answering. Does this count as too much information? She looks at him then, really looks at him. He is thin, thinner than she ever remembers him. He is in his own head more than he is in the world. His gray Azkaban robes are stained in places with what looks like it might be dried blood or dirt. His nose is still crooked and half his face is sunken in but his posture is still rigid, like he is still holding a crown on his badly beaten head. She set out to rescue him from Death Eaters and now he is being tortured for information in a prison. Some savior she turned out to be. If he was not in need of rescuing when she found him, he certainly is now. This is the least that she can do. "No, Malfoy," she says eventually, "It's Wednesday now. I was here last eight days ago."

He drops his hand back to his lap, and pierces her with a sharp stare. "Do you pity me, Granger?"

And there is ghost of his old self in the words. Clearly articulated and condescending in the shadow of the boy who tortured her at Hogwarts. The boy who was responsible for the death of the greatest wizard she will ever know. The death of her childhood and everything good and kind and innocent in the world. Yes, he has suffered, but it has been his own wrongdoing that has brought this down on him, and still, he is making deals. Still, he is making demands and messing with her head. "No, Malfoy," she bites out, "I do not."

He seems pleased with this, and nods once. "See that that does not change, Mudblood. Do not waste your pity on me. It would be unwise."

She stands, and transfers the ball to her left hand. "I told you not to call me that, Malfoy." she spits out, "And I will do whatever I bloody please, regardless of what you think is wise or not."

The guards are opening the door then and she is already walking toward it, her back to him. She will not look back, even when he next speaks.

"Then I will eat you alive, Mudblood" he calls to her, "Skin, bones, and soul."


	8. How We Are Not the Same

**A/N**: Thank you so very, very much to everyone who has reviewed. I love you. So very, very much. You will probably never fully understand just how much I cherish them. Truly.

I am terrible, I know. I'm sorry. Real life has been hectic. This chapter is late enough without me wasting another second explaining myself.

**Chapter 8**

How We are not the Same

* * *

**Wednesday, November 13th.**

She extracts the memory, just like last time, but even when the images in her mind dull and blur around the edges, she cannot ignore that Malfoy is being tortured anymore. Her fingers curl against her palm, even as she follows the guards back out of the prison and back towards the apparition point. Once they are out of earshot, Hermione clears her throat and says, "Dawlish, there's something I want to talk to you about."

* * *

She waits until they get back to Andromeda's house before resuming the argument, which was paused briefly so they could wade out into the cold water of the black sea to take a portkey back. She doesn't even waste time on a drying spell. "I don't care who he is!" She roars, throwing her hands wide and turning on Dawlish.

"Hermione, calm down!" Mallory hisses, putting a restraining hand on her shoulder. "You won't change any minds like this. Think about what you're doing."

"No!" and she knows how much she must sound like Ron, but she doesn't care. She has become part of this great, twisted knot of injustice and she cannot stand it any more. She imagines the teeth in her chest upstairs. She imagines Malfoy's shut and sunken eye. She imagines herself standing over him in the woods- damnation dressed like salvation. "You can't keep torturing him! He's _helping us!_ And do you know what he wants in return? A bloody Daily Prophet! A _newspaper!_"

Dawlish is trying very hard to contain his anger. There is a vein pulsing at his temple and his jaw clenches and unclenches. "I will not have this talk with you again, girl!"

"We will have it time and again until you see reason! You can't keep torturing people like that! This is going to get out at some point, and when it does, I won't stand by you when the press attacks!"

"You are not a ministry official!" He roars finally, "You have no ability to affect this call being made!"

"Oh, yes I do," she widens her eyes, "I won't speak with him again until I have your word that he won't be tortured for information that he'll give us willingly! He can't just keep being treated like a...like a war criminal any more!"

"But he _is_ a war criminal!" Dawlish throws his meaty hands in the air around his face, "That is actually what he is!"

She lets out a strangled cry, "Then don't expect me to go back to Azkaban again! I'm not going to be a part of this...this _madness_ anymore!" and she turns on her heel, and storms out of the house, slamming the door behind her so hard that the windows shake.

On the second floor of the house, Dawlish's bed catches on fire, but Hermione doesn't know this. In fact, no one knows it at all until Ginny opens the door because she smells smoke five minutes later, and by then, the entire room has been engulfed in flames.

**Friday, November 15th.**

Two days later, there is a knock on her door, and Dawlish shows himself in before she can answer it. He has been staying in a different safehouse since the fire and Hermione has not missed him in the slightest.

"He has been given a Daily Prophet from this week." he says by way of introduction. "He is in permanent solitary confinement. There will be no more interrogations, but you _will_ cooperate from now on. On everything."

She sits up on her bed, where she has been reading, "Of course." She agrees at once.

"We'll be going back again at some point in the future. You will be going back. We need to know whatever he'll tell us. Your goal is to find out if he has any memories intact enough to share with us and, if he does, you are to obtain them. Is that clear?"

"Yes," she replies, nodding. "Ok. Definitely."

"You also will not request to be put on any more squads. If you're needed for a fight, we'll let you know, but you can't just keep asking to go into any more spats."

Spats, Hermione knows by now, are what the Aurors call fights. Like giving them a cute, small name makes it any less dangerous. "Ok," she says eventually, although she doesn't like it. She likes the idea of torture even less, even if it is only Malfoy and if no one deserves it more than he does.

"When there is a spat and you are on reserve, you will not complain about it. You will wait to receive word on the off chance that your skills as a cursebreaker and healer are needed or to hear from a messenger upon the completion of the mission."

"Ok," she says because there really isn't anything else that she can say to this, even if she wants to.

"Right then." Dawlish nods once. "Andromeda says lunch is ready and you are to come down to eat."

Hermione smiles at this. Andromeda Tonks probably only said the first part and Dawlish has inserted the second on his own. "Ok," she says, replacing her bookmark and sliding in her sock-clad feet to the floor.

He turns to go, and she notices that his ears are red, "And Dawlish, thank you. I really appreciate it."

He grunts and doesn't turn around.

**Tuesday, November 19th.**

There is a raid on an undisclosed location half a week later and, of course, Hermione is not allowed to go, so she waits at the kitchen table with Ginny, who is chewing noisily on her fingernails. Everything seems louder than it should right now- the rain is hammering on the windows outside, the clock is ticking loud and obnoxious above the door and every time the wood on the fire snaps and pops, both girls jump and look around, just to be sure it wasn't the sound of apparition. Hermione sighs through her nose and opens the first aid kit again, triple-checking to make sure that they still have everything that they might need.

Hermione wishes that Andromeda were here, just for the familiarity of her unflappable presence, but Tonks wasn't feeling well, and Andromeda has been with her for three days now. Hermione did not know that she liked Andromeda until she was suddenly gone.

There is a snap of thunder outside and the back door swings open and Mallory stumbles in, supported by Justin Finch-Fletchley, his curling blonde hair plastered to his face with rainwater and a streak of someone else's blood smeared across his chin. He helps Mallory into a chair where she winces as she bends to remove her boot. He squats in front of her to help untie them.

"What happened?" asks Hermione, and her wand is in her hand already. "Did you find him?"

Mallory shakes her head, splattering the floor with rainwater as Justin slides her shoe gingerly from her left foot. "No, but we did manage to catch a dozen or so Death Eaters."

Justin pulls off her sock with trembling fingers and she whimpers. Just sucks in a breath as he examines the bloody, ragged hole about the size of a sickle going through the top Mallory's foot. Blood drips through the hole and onto the floor and, although it is ragged with blood and torn skin, Hermione can clearly see light shining through it. She swallows thickly and begins to rummage through the little supply bottles.

"What happened to you?" Ginny asks, her eyes wide as she takes in the slow ooze of blood.

"When they realized we had found them, one of them through these little black marble things across the floor at us. They'd go right through whatever they came into contact with. Anything but wood, but we didn't realize it until people started stepping on them."

"I got lucky," Mallory smiles at them, although her skin is pale and faintly green, "Williamson fell on a bunch of them, we don't know if he'll pull through, but we made out better than the death eaters, at any rate." She winces again as Hermione droppers dittany into the hole. The first drop goes right through her foot and lands on the floor, but the second drop catches on a flap of loose skin. Mallory hisses through her teeth as the dittany sizzles on the wound. Next, Hermione measures out a teaspoon of skele-go and Mallory winces as she swallows it.

"Disgusting," she complains. Ginny hands her a glass of water.

Hermione watches, fascinated, as the bone- the fourth metatarsal- regrows, building yellow-white cell on top of yellow-white cell until it fills the hole completely. Hermione measures out three more drops of dittany onto the exposed bone. She wishes she didn't have to use so much- dittany is rare and expensive, but she can't leave a wound like this to heal on its own.

"Thanks," Mallory sighs and leans back in the chair, "much better." She curls and flexes her toes.

"I don't know why you didn't just go to St. Mungo's," Justin says now that the danger seems to have passed.

"No need," she waves away the idea of it, "Hermione took care of it no problem, just like I said she would." Mallory gives her a grin, but Hermione doesn't return it. She is capable of more than putting dittany on things, and she doesn't appreciate being thrown this small of a bone. Ginny shoos Mallory out of the chair so she can scourgify the bloodstains. "And besides, orders are orders and I wasn't going to die or anything."

"I'm not going to give you a blood replenishing potion, are you alright without it, do you think? And what orders?" Hermione asks.

"Fine," Mallory nods, "Dawlish wanted us to come back to tell you that it worked. His information was good, even though Kingsley wasn't there, so you should be ready to head back to Azkaban in the morning."

Hermione glances at the clock. It is a bit after four in the afternoon, even though the sky out the window is dark enough for midnight. "What time are we going?"

"Ten thirty," replies Mallory. She taps the hole in her boot with her wand, "Reparo. Same as last time."

* * *

She goes to bed that night thinking about Harry and Ron. There has been no word from them in what feels like forever. No news is, of course, good news, because if there was news, it would be bad news, but she still doesn't like it. She feels eyes on her almost all the time now, and she wonders if she is being haunted by a spirit or struck with a curse she hasn't noticed before now.

She doesn't know when it started, not exactly, but the first time she remembers feeling watched like this was when she was imprisoned in that dark room. A cold thought catches her heart- what if she wasn't alone down there at all? What if some sort of dark magic was waiting down there in the dark until it could attach itself to someone, and now it is attached to her? She rubs her thumb in swift circles across the base of her wand, and worries her lip between her teeth.

There is a soft pressure on her chest and she sits up so fast that Crookshanks is hurled across the room with a yowl of surprise.

"Whazzat?" Ginny asks, her voice hoarse and confused. "Whazzat sound?"

"Oh Crooks," Hermione sighs, and nonverbally lights the tip of her wand. "I'm so sorry. Are you alright?"

He lets out a grumble in response, and clambers back onto the bed, although this time, he is careful to jump up to the left side of her head, and not directly onto her chest.

**Wednesday, November 20th.**

This time, she borrows Ginny's high quidditch boots and she wears her muggle rain coat. Mallory and Dawlish give her strange looks as she tromps into the kitchen.

"Stare all you want," she says primly, with her nose in the air, "But I will be warm and dry while the two of you are shivering in that freezer they try to pass off as a prison."

"Right. You know the drill. Hands on the shell."

"What kind of shell is it, Dawlish?" Mallory asks lightly.

"Why do you want to know?" Is the growled reply.

"Curiosity." Mallory shrugs lightly. "Is this another murex?" she asks.

"No, and get your hand on the damned thing, or we'll leave you behind." A blush is spreading down the side of Dawlish's neck, and there is a vein throbbing at his temple.

"Oh, but what shall I put my hand on, oh Leader of Mine?" Mallory's hand hovers just above the shell.

Dawlish mumbles something too low and fast for even Hermione to catch it.

"I couldn't quite catch that, Dawlish," Mallory giggles her high girlish chuckle.

Hermione fights to keep down a grin as Dawlish, broad shouldered and booming-voiced, mutters, "Lightning Whelk."

Grinning triumphantly, Mallory puts her hand squarely on the shell.

* * *

"Aren't you worried he's going to sack you?" Hermione asks Mallory as they slosh through the water towards the waiting guards.

Mallory gives her a long took, like she is running numbers in her head, "He can't," she replies quietly, as though it is a secret she is trusting Hermione with, "When the ministry fell, we defected rather than work under Death Eater control. He isn't actually my boss anymore."

Hermione knew that the aurors had defected, of course, but she also knew that everyone still followed rank and Dawlish still acted like he was in charge. The aurors mostly keep to themselves at Andromeda's house, and they never wear the bright blue Phoenix armbands, so they are as much an imposing mystery to the "civilians" as they have always been. Hermione had just assumed that they still had some sort of hierarchy established, but hearing Mallory so clearly state that she did not have to listen to Dawlish sounded so strange- like someone had taken the world apart and then put it back together sideways.

"Of course we still mostly listen to him," Mallory adds, sensing Hermione discomfiture, "he's the most experienced, and he really does look out for us." She looks up at Dawlish, who is stomping a ways in front of them, already on the shore, and looking murderous. "Isn't that right, Dawlish?" She calls.

He grunts and glares out at her. "Hurry up your arses or I'll leave you here."

"You aren't still sore about the seashell thing, are you?"

* * *

She holds out her wand silently and they don't even ask before they take it. The waterfall still soaks through Hermione's cloak, and it weighs on her shoulders like a dead body. Everything is exactly the same. They turn left and they turn right and a stretch of wall opens up like a door in front of them when they stop.

The guard on the left holds the gray ball out to her. "If anything happens that makes you even remotely uncomfortable, loosen your grip on the ball. It will lock down the cell, effectively ending communication and we will be alerted," he says, but she is nodding without listening.

"Ok," she says as soon as he is finished speaking. Mallory gives her a thumbs up when the guard on the right holds the door open for her, and Dawlish looks stonily at her with his arms folded across his chest.

There is a lump of blankets on the bed, and, of course, he is under those, just like he was on their first meeting.

"Malfoy," she says, a bit louder than normal. Is he sleeping? She thinks it a bit out of character for him to be such a deep sleeper while he is a prisoner in Azkaban. Maybe he's dead. She can't, after all, see the rise and fall of breath, but that could also just be a function of the distance between them.

"Malfoy," she tries again, "Have you died?"

"As convenient as that would be, I'm sure," replies his voice, but not from the bed. He is on the other side of the cell, hidden mostly by shadow. "I must disappoint." He steps forward, and drapes his arms over the bars of his cage so that his fingers dangle out on her side of the bars. The scabs on his fingertips are shiny, but they do not look new. There is a deep cut running from just beside his left eye to the tip of his chin, like a crooked smile carved onto his face. His nose is still bent unnaturally to one side. His right eye is still mostly closed, but a sliver of gray iris and red scabbing peaks out at her from under the puffy purple lid. He looks horrible, but less horrible than last time, and none of the damage looks new. She sits a bit straighter.

His head snaps toward her face suddenly, like catching sight of something. The intensity of his stare unnerves her, like he is trying to memorize some change in her features that she was unaware of, at least until his head tilts sideways, and his eyes meet hers. Then, she realizes with a cold start that he was not looking at her at all, but just past her face. The hairs on the back of her neck rise and goosepimples erupt on her skin.

"Fear makes the wolf look bigger, but don't tell the wolf it's so." he tells her matter-of-factly, and she almost believes that he is not talking like a madman, that he knows something about whatever curse she is under.

Maybe he does, she thinks to herself, He is, after all, a death eater. "Your information was good," she informs him, "But Kingsley wasn't there."

"Did they let you go, Granger? When they raided the house? Were you there?" His words are intense, desperate, almost, like he is hungry for something and looking desperately for it anywhere he can, although she doesn't know what exactly that is. His tongue darts out and wets his lips.

She did not expect the question, but she maintains her composure when she answers, anyway. "That is none of your business, Malfoy. Where I go and what I do when I'm not here does not concern you."

"Oh, but it does," he replies, a deranged smile curling up his cheek, "If the house still stands, it matters. But of course it stands, and you are here and not there, and it is angry and it is hungry and you talk more than play. I never play anymore, Granger. There are no more walks and talks and life is very long but not for you. Not for yours." His eyes are unfocused and his hands curl and uncurl around the bars, before relaxing downward again.

She sighs hard through her nose. By now she has learned that when Malfoy's mind wanders like this, he will bring himself back when he can, but she does not feel like waiting for that to happen. She is tired and she is wet and she is frightened, and this last one makes her angry. Although it is not Malfoy's fault, and it is illogical to blame him for his own madness and how she relates his comments to her own life, she still blames him.

"Where is Potter?" His eyes are fixed on her again, and his gaze is sharp.

"If I haven't told you yet," she asks, "What honestly makes you think that I'll tell you now?"

"You will see, Granger, that I always get what I want in the end."

She gives him a look that she hopes conveys her disbelief of this statement, "Right. Anyway, we want two addresses now."

"There's no point," Malfoy shakes his head slowly, "The Muggle Lover is dead."

Her hands clench into fists. Her nails bite into her palms. "you have no way of knowing that, Malfoy, and I do not appreciate being lied to."

"Flay him, bake him, feed him to the snake, him!" Malfoy calls out in a singsong voice.

"Stop it!" she snaps and, much to her surprise he does. Even the mad smile shrinks.

"Forgive me, Granger, I know not what I do. This is no lie, although you think it so. Cleverest witch who cannot read. You will not find the body, but you will persist in looking, I am sure. You will want new places anyway, and it will be good to find the hiding holes whether they hold your treasure or not."

"You have no way of knowing if he is dead." She repeats it more for her sake than for his, because she knows what the truth must logically be, but she is having a hard time convincing her heart of it.

"But I know where he is?" His eyebrow almost quirks, but not quite.

"You know where he might be, Malfoy. There's a difference." She sneers at him then, because he is pretending to know more than he does. He is trying to make himself seem more important than he really is and it is pathetic, serving only to remind her what an opportunistic snake he really is. Even now, he is trying to bargain. She almost regrets the bargain she made on his behalf- he does not seem the least bit grateful. If anything, he is even more insufferable than he was before.

"And thus wars are fought."

This gives her pause. The comment is almost thought-provoking, or would be if he were not so mad while saying it. It sounds like it should mean something deep, but in context, she cannot figure out what it might mean. Anyway, she isn't here for a social chat, and his comment about Kingsley still has her hackles raised. "Will you cooperate- yes or no?" she asks bluntly.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "A new perfume?"

"Yes or no?" She repeats. No, she isn't wearing perfume, but she did wash her hair this morning and she wonders to herself if it is even possible that he can smell her shampoo.

"And what will I get in return?" he asks, as he has asked both times before now.

She doesn't even bother answering. She just picks her chin up a little higher and gives him her haughtiest stare.

He stretches his arms forward, and they are so long that they almost reach the line on the floor. His knuckles crack and he arches backwards like a cat. Like he is just waking up from a nap. Like this is a meeting between friends and he is comfortable where he is. His fingers bend like they have been broken too often.

"A newspaper," he says for the second time. "What day is it today?"

Dawlish chewed her out for answering that one last time, so she doesn't want to answer it today. She glares at him instead, but something about his demeanor has shifted. There is an almost tentative curiosity in his words, and he is looking up at her from under his eyelashes. Like he doesn't want to hope that she'll answer. Like he doesn't want to put that much faith in it.

And all at once Hermione's mind pulls out like a camera on a string and she is watching her life unfold as though she is watching this all in a movie. She sees herself, sitting cross-armed and cross-legged in front of a badly broken boy, and he is asking her what day it is, and she is not going to answer because she doesn't want to give him even that much satisfaction, and suddenly she knows how petty and small withholding such information really is. Somewhere, and she isn't sure where, she started seeing this meeting as her versus him, and she can't stand that. It leaves a bad taste in her mouth because Dawlish is wrong- this isn't about good guys and bad guys. She doesn't know yet what it really is about, but she is sure that is not it.

"It's Wednesday."

His head leans forward against the bars and he lets out a sigh, his eyes closed. He mutters something, but she cannot hear what it is. He is smiling faintly when his head tilts back up towards her. "Run along, little mudblood," he says, "Tell your friends what I have said, and I am sure I will see you soon."

She wants to stay longer, just to spite him, but at the same time, she doesn't want to spend any more time than absolutely necessary shivering in this cell opposite a deranged reminder of her past who is smiling gently up at her.

So she shifts the ball from her left hand to her right, and the door swings open and she is escorted out. Malfoy's eye remains trained on her until the door is closed between them.

* * *

She leaves the visitor's room with the little vial of her memory held in her hand.

"You don't look too good," Mallory says after Hermione hands the vial off to Dawlish.

Hermione shakes her head in reply. "This place is getting to me," she says. It isn't the whole truth, she knows. Malfoy is getting to her more than Azkaban is, but she doesn't want to admit to that out loud, especially not with Dawlish within hearing.

Still, it's true enough that Mallory seems to buy it. "It does that to everyone," she says, and claps Hermione once on the back. "We'll get out of here, and we'll get a drink. Do you smoke?"

"Bulstrode, you will not get anyone else hooked on that filthy habit! The girl is young. Act like the adult your birth certificate says you are." Dawlish's warning voice cuts in, and both girls jump.

"It was only a question," Mallory grumbles, but doesn't press the subject any more. "Killjoy," she grumbles under her breath.

* * *

Later that evening, while Hermione is sitting by the fireplace with a book and her cat, Ginny pads into the room and flops onto the couch beside her.

"Mallory said you need some girl time," Ginny says, "So what's going on?"

Hermione looks up at her, more confused than anything else. "I have no idea." Hermione replies honestly. Crookshanks puts a paw on her hand to remind her to keep scratching his chin. She complies.

"Is it the boys?" Ginny asks, and by the tender way she says _boys_, Hermione knows that, no matter how much she misses Harry and Ron, Ginny probably misses them twice that much, since she hasn't been allowed to leave Andromeda's once since she and Hermione arrived here more than a month ago.

"I suppose it is," Hermione lies, even though she knows that if anything is bothering her, it is her meeting with Malfoy that always leave her disconcerted and angry.

Ginny nods understandingly, "I miss them too. It's like I'll never be whole again, you know? Between them and F-Fred," she swallows quickly as she says the name, and blinks too often to just be clearing her eyes, "It's like everything is more broken than can ever be fixed, you know?"

It is worth noting that this is the first time Hermione has heard any of the Weasleys say his name since he died, and all of a sudden, it feels like there is a ghost of him in the room- like a shadow stained into the carpet at Ginny's feet that will always belong to him.

Loss, Hermione realizes, is like a car crash. Physics teaches that in any car crash, there are really three smaller crashes. There is the car connecting with the other car, or with the telephone pole, or with whatever it is hitting. Then there is the body being thrown forward against the seatbelt or dashboard or road, since according to Newton's first law, a body in motion will stay in motion until it meets some sort of resistance. The third type of collision is the worst kind- it is the organs and blood and whatnot inside the person that are thrown forward against the rib cage or skin of the person in the crash. This is the most dangerous type of crash because this is the one that doesn't show immediate damage, but has a lasting effect. Fred died. It only happened once and it was sudden and then it was over, like a car hitting a telephone pole. Everyone grieved his death, and that was their heads hitting the dashboard. But he is still an empty hole that they cannot fill; he is still an aching cavity where love once sat. And that is the last accident, and that is the one that hurts the most; that does the most damage.

Hermione puts an arm around Ginny's skinny shoulders, careful not to dislodge Crookshanks, "It's all going to be ok," she says.


	9. The Unlocked Door

**A/N:** To those of you who have reviewed: I am working on a **special side chapter** thing for you, but unfortunately it won't make any sense to you for, like, three more chapters (or up to ten because I am the world's slowest editor and everything that has been published so far was in the rough draft as chapters 1-3.

ALSO! I regret to inform you that I have a very busy couple of months ahead of me. I am moving across the globe (literally) in a month and a half, but my apartment lease expires in a month, so that means that I will have to rely on public access to publish chapters for 2-3 weeks during April. While I hope to continue with my weekly updates, I don't know if that will be possible during that time. I know it's early to be announcing this and everything might work out fine, I just want you to be prepared in case I dip for a bit next month.

Sorry this is short, but I am currently trying to figure out how to pair down my worldly possessions to fit into two suitcases or less.

**EDIT!** This chapter is dedicated to the brilliant Elantil, who is a magnificent editor even though she doesn't have to be. She is just amazing like that. WORSHIP HER!

**Chapter 9: The Unlocked Door**

**Sunday, November 23rd.**

When the back door rattles open this time, it is Lavender Brown and Seamus Finnegan who stumble in. Both are covered in sweat and they look excited.

"Did you find him?" Hermione is on her feet and so is Ginny.

Seamus shakes his head and Lavender collapses heavily in a chair. "But we did capture a good half-dozen, with no casualties on our side this time!" Lavender sounds pleased with herself.

Hermione tries not to feel too jealous. She is better with magic than Lavender, and Lavender has made a place for herself in a squad of other people Hermione grew up with, so it is sour to taste that she is not one of them so acutely.

"That's great, Lavender!" Ginny sounds genuinely pleased, and maybe she is. After all, she can't go against her mother's order not to fight for another few months, and she is always desperately hungry for any news of the outside world and war.

"Yeah, it was mostly recruits," chimes in Seamus, "but we got Goyle senior."

Ginny crows and claps her hands, "About bloody time!"

Even Hermione smiles.

"Is there anything to eat," asks Seamus, who is already looking in the refrigerator, "I'm starving!"

**Monday, November 24th.**

"Hello, Malfoy."

He closes his eyes as she sits down in her chair, and she waits for him to decide that it is really her. His head swivels as he looks past her, but his gaze pauses on her chair, and then his head tilts down and he is staring at her feet. She curls her toes inside her boots. She thinks about the claws reaching from the darkness, but towards her ankles this time. But, no- now is not the time to get worked about about whatever curse if following her. She doesn't know if Malfoy would be able to tell if she allowed herself to be truly scared, but she won't even risk giving him the satisfaction. She leaves her feet planted firmly on the ground and tries to slow her breathing down by force.

"It has claws," he returns by way of greeting.

She wonders if he read her mind, or at least her imagination. _I am thinking about purple panda bears!_ she thinks as loudly as she can, just to throw him off if he can read her mind (but she knows he can't), and out loud, she says, "Good to know," and she tries to keep the fear out of her voice, but the sound comes out higher and closer to a whine than normal.

His eyes are still purple. His sharp nose is still crooked and there is another bruise that takes up his entire left cheek, which still looks sunken in. His hair is longer though, and when he laces his fingers in his lap, she sees his nail beds are only lightly scabbed over and there is a faint crescent of nail visible at the edges of each finger, ragged but definitely present. This is evidence of her victory over the ministry, and she is proud.

"The mission was successful, Malfoy," she says then, because she realizes that he is just staring at her, waiting for her to say something else. "But we need another location."

"Is this all that they want from me?" he sighs dramatically, "I could be so much more than a map, Granger. They are wasting my talents."

She shrugs and keeps her face blank. "I'm only a spokesperson, Malfoy. If you want to change this, bring it up with Dawlish or one of your keepers."

He laughs then, and there is no mirth in the sound, but there is something very close to disgust. "Then they are wasting your talents so much more than they are wasting mine."

She agrees with him, but she can't say so because she isn't supposed to show any interest in him. She can't be something he gets invested in and so she can't tell him how right he really is. "A location, Malfoy. I'm here to negotiate for whatever you want next."

"Have you been keeping up with the news, Granger?" He reaches behind himself.

For one crazy moment, Hermione think he is going to pull out a wand and kill her. Right there, from inside his prison cell, and she is on her feet, arms in front of her face to protect her eyes, nose, and mouth from whatever curse is coming, her heart is pounding hard on her tongue and she tastes fear, an acrid bile in her throat. She is going to die. She is going to die here and now and she is going to be killed by Draco _Fucking_ Malfoy who only now seems like he might be a threat.

But he only pulls out a neatly folded Daily Prophet.

He is staring at her as though nothing had interrupted their talk. His eyes are glassy and calm. "I know something that you don't know, Granger," he taunts slowly.

She sits heavily back in her chair. "What do you want in exchange for another location?" she snaps back because she is no longer in a mood for these games.

"The news, Granger," is the immediate reply. "I want a daily subscription to the _Prophet_. I can pay for it myself, but I will need a loan for the money before I can access my account."

Of all the things he can request in the world, this is what he wants. More than for his face to be healed. More than his freedom or news about his family. A newspaper. A cruel newspaper that does nothing but spout lies about "Magic-Stealing Muggles" and the dangers of "Blood Traitors" and Harry Potter to the very fabric of wizarding society. She feels very cold and very far away. She knows that Malfoy isn't the type to care about that sort of thing, but his blase approach to the obvious biases and bigotry is appalling and base. She has had his blood on her hands and his teeth in her pocket, but he is as remote as the moon and infinitely colder.

"Fine. I'll relay the request," she says and she doesn't have to try to keep her voice flat. She is only a messenger. She doesn't know if they can grant the request, but they will see it in her memories and they will decide for themselves.

He tilts his head to one side, as if he can hear something she can't and for one horrifying moment, she thinks that maybe he can, but no- he is the crazy one, not her. A slow smile curls up his cheek, "I know something you don't know," he repeats in a singsong voice. "I know something, Granger. Something you don't. Do you want to know what it is, Granger?" He sways from side to side like a snake before a sparrow and rises slowly to his feet. His posture is rigid and his head still grazes the ceiling. She can see the outline of his collarbone through the thin material of his shirt.

"If it isn't about where we can find the minister, Malfoy-"

"Oh, but it is. It's the secret to all of this. It will reveal everything to you- where you stand in all of this and even what role I shall play."

She considers this for a moment. There is a very good chance, she thinks, that he is making this up, just to toy with her. He's trying to get a reaction and he's using her well-known curiosity against her, but still part of her wonders if maybe he does know something that he's only now hinting at. "Fine," she says eventually, "What is it?"

"Come closer," he sways on his feet again, lurches forward one step. He isn't wearing shoes. The gray Azkaban pants leave his ankles exposed to the cold. They are knobbly. He wraps his hands around the bars of his cage.

Something about this seems off to her, but she can't figure out what it is. She stands, and takes a step toward him, so her toes are just along the black line painted on the floor. It is sticky under her shoes. Like tar.

"Closer," he says again and his eyes are glassy in the dull light. He is still smiling at her and his head presses against the bars.

Hesitantly, she takes a step over the line. Nothing happens. No doors open. No alarms sound. Nothing happens, except that Malfoy smiles a bit wider and the grin is too big for his hollowed out face. A pink tongue darts out and wets his lips. He whispers something.

Hermione watches his lips move, but can't hear anything. "What did you say?" she leans forward, takes another step toward him. "I couldn't hear you." It is stupid to take another step toward him, she knows, but Dawlish and the guards had both assured her that she is protected by more than one type of barrier, and so what harm could there be in taking a step toward him? She knows it is probably stupid to test fate like this, and she hesitates. Hermione Granger has always been the smart one, but being the smart one has been more trouble that it is worth recently. She wants to be brave, and one cannot be brave and smart simultaneously at this point, and so she chooses to be brave.

He whispers again and she leans in to hear it. "Y...ti..ish. If...gi...a..."

She takes another step forward, and she is so close now that she can see the shadowy crease on the bridge of his nose where it has snapped and the flecks of blue around the dilated pupil of his left eye. She is so close that she could reach out to touch him if she wanted to, but she knows that the barriers won't let her through.

Something cold brushes against the knuckles of her right hand, and her head snaps down as his fingers pull back inside the cell. "They haven't locked the door in a week. They want to see what I'll do."

She takes stumbling steps backwards and realizes, too late that the ball isn't in her hands any more. It's in Malfoy's and he tosses it from his left and to his right. The door swings open. The guards rush in and Dawlish is close behind them. He drags her backwards toward the exit as spells flash red into Malfoy's cage.

* * *

Her hands are still shaking as she and Dawlish make their way to the apparition point, "He was lying, Hermione," Dawlish barks. "This is exactly why I told you not to get too close. And why the hell did you cross that line?"

She nods and tries to believe him. "Of course. It's just a bit of a shock is all."

"Course it is," he is gruff, but not unkind, "He's your first real prisoner. They don't have anything to do but think all day, now that we've lost the dementors, which is ruddy the worst thing to happen so far, so all they do is plan how to mess with the good guys."

Hermione remembers the dementors and she remembers Sirius- haunted and gaunt after his stay in Azkaban. She remembers Harry screaming and collapsing. She remembers the cold hand of hopelessness closing around her own heart. She doesn't think that they "lost" the dementors and she certainly doesn't think it's the "worst thing to happen" that they aren't in Azkaban any more, but she doesn't say any of this. Instead, she says, "I knew him from school, you know. Malfoy. He wasn't like this then."

"War changes everyone," Dawlish replies.

Hermione nods but doesn't answer. She is trying to figure out if Draco's words were a warning or a threat. She is trying to decide if he was lying to her or not, but Dawlish is being too understanding for her to truly believe.

He says then, "After we get to Andromeda's. Firewhiskey for the nerves. Only thing in order after something like this."

* * *

As soon as they get to the safe house, Dawlish pulls firewhiskey out of a cabinet above the refrigerator and she collapses into her usual chair at the table.

"Oh," he says, like the idea hits him suddenly, "Forgot. I'll want that memory from you before we start drinking. Alcohol muddles things, and I want this to be clear."

"Right," she says, caught off guard. She stands, "I've got vials up in my room. I'll just go do that now."

He nods and she scampers up the stairs to the room she shares with Ginny and counts herself lucky that Ginny is not inside. She siphons out the memory for Dawlish and, on an impulse, she recalls the spell that Lupin used to copy her memory months ago, and quietly makes a copy of her memory and drops the second silvery strand into a separate vial that she hastily stuffs into her beaded bag. She doesn't want to take too long, just in case Dawlish thinks she's tampering with the memory, and so she tosses her bag onto her bed and heads back downstairs.

They have three rounds of firewhiskey and she is feeling relaxed and smiley by the time he leaves. He reminds her of an uncle who died when she was young- her mother's brother- and she almost regrets keeping a copy of the memory for herself. She almost gives it back to him when he puts on his travelling cloak to leave, but she doesn't want to end the evening on a sour note, so she resolves to just watch the memory and prove to herself that she has no reason to be suspicious. Dawlish isn't the type to lie to her.

* * *

The next day, she approaches Andromeda, who is chopping vegetables for dinner.

"Andromeda," she says as politely as she can, "Do you have a penseive I could borrow?"

"That depends on what you want it for," Andromeda replies without missing a beat. Her eyes are calculating as she looks Hermione up and down.

"I want to look at some memories of a new Death Eater curse," she recites. She has been rehearsing the lie in her room all morning, "It's one that-"

"I don't want to hear about another of these curses," Andromeda cuts in, waving the knife as if to ward off a particularly gruesome mental image. Her husband has been missing for three days. He is on a mission, but Andromeda clearly doesn't want to think about what might happen to him. Hermione mentally pats herself on the back for choosing this excuse.

Andromeda leads Hermione up to a study on the third floor and unlocks a cabinet, pulling an empty penseive out and placing it gently on the table.

"Just come find me when you're done so I can lock the room up," Andromeda says, who has too many soldiers in her house to want to ask more questions. Hermione is grateful for this, because she doesn't know what she'd say if Andromeda asked. "Take however long you need." Then she is gone.

Hermione dumps the bottle upside down into the pensieve and sticks her head in.

"Hello, Malfoy," Memory-Hermione says, sitting straight-backed in her metal chair.

Memory-Malfoy closes his eyes and opens them again. Hermione walks around the chair to see if she can catch a glimpse of the monster, but there is nothing out of the ordinary in what she sees.

"The mission was successful, Malfoy," she hears herself say and she is so surprised by this that she passes right through herself, and feels like she has been plunged into a bucket of icy water.

"No," she mumbles to herself, and her eyebrows draw low over her eyes. "That isn't what happened."

She watches the start to the memory over and over again, looking for the seam where something was altered, but there is nothing. "Hello, Malfoy," she says coldly over and over again. He blinks- that's all it is, a blink- and then she says "The mission was successful, Malfoy." Like there was nothing at all between these things, but she knows that there was! She can remember it perfectly in her mind! Malfoy told her it had claws and she was frightened by it!

But did he? Had she, really?

There is no seam in the watercolor-reality of the pensieve. There is no glitch in her memory, and so she doubts the memory she has in her mind.

She wonders if she is going mad. She thinks that there is a pretty good chance that her time in that dark cell unhinged her a bit, but she cannot doubt how she escaped, nor the wand she brought back with her, although the ministry was never able to trace the wand back to an original owner. She can feel the world spinning around her and she is starting to doubt her place in the reality she knows. But Malfoy said something, too! She knows he did. She makes a mental note to go back and check all of the memories.

Reluctantly, she forces her brain back to the query she originally set out to answer and dives back into the memory.

"I know something you don't know," Malfoy taunts for the second time, his head tilted to the side. She can see, now, that he is not looking at her figure in the chair when he is speaking, but his eyes are wildly roaming around the room. Hermione walks up to him and passes through the ephemeral bars of the cell. She circles him as memory-Hermione speaks with him.

Only from this close can she see how thin he is. His back is hunched forward, and she can see the ridges of his spine and the outline of his ribs through the thin shirt. Scars peek up over the collar of his shirt, raised and paler than his skin like long white worms shining in the dim torchlight.

She circles back toward his face and stands in the bars, only inches from him. His tongue flicks out and he licks lips. Her eyes follow the gesture, and she turns to catch her own response, but he whispers. "Are you listening, Dawlish?" It is barely more than a breath.

"What did you say?" Memory-Hermione says and present-Hermione jumps. The memory-her leans forward and takes a step toward Malfoy. Hermione had never realized how loud her own voice was before. Even her shoes sound loud on the flagstones. "I couldn't hear you."

Hermione watches the fear flicker in her own eyes. Is she afraid of Malfoy? Oh, if only her fifteen-year-old self could see her now- separated from her friends and afraid of a schoolyard bully.

He whispers again, just behind her ear and she can hear him clearly this time. "You are wasting my time, Dawlish. If you do not give me what I want soon then I float away on the blood of your aurors. You do not want me as your enemy, Dawlish. I know things you don't."

She approaches the cell now, in the memory, and Malfoy's eyes dilate. Hermione turns to see the freckles on her own nose, and she watches Malfoy's eyes rake over her face. His nostrils flare ever-so-slightly, like he is smelling her, but his eyes never stray farther than her collar, and he keeps eye contact with her steadily. Even as a third-party observer, Hermione cannot read the expression in his cold gaze.

His hand is through the bars before he even begins to speak, even though he never breaks eye contact with her. His fingers close around the edges of the ball in her hand. "They haven't locked the door in a week. They want to see what I'll do."

She watches as he turns his fingers ever-so-slightly to brush his ring and fifth fingers against her knuckles. The gesture is gentler than she expected, and not an accident at all. It was intentional, to let her know what he was doing without having to tell her. Memory-Hermione recoils from the touch automatically and the ball stays in Malfoy's hand. In the memory, her eyes are wide with panic.

She is still in the cell with Malfoy, who sighs lightly, "Three days, Dawlish." he says it so quietly that if she were any father from him, she wouldn't even have known he had spoken.

The door on the other side of the hallway bursts open. There are flashes of light. The memory ends.

Hermione is standing in the orange glow of sunset in Andromeda's study. With shaking fingers, she siphons the memory back into the small vial and replaces the pensieve in the cabinet. She takes a moment to settle her hammering heart before leaving the room.

"Did you find out what you needed?" Andromeda asks when Hermione returns to the kitchen. She is stirring a large pot of good-smelling stew over a blue-green fire.

"For the most part," she replies, and she is proud of how even her voice remains.


	10. Vows

**A/N:** Look who's got a chapter out a day early! Yay!

Also, I am definitely going to be sending a **bonus** chapter out to reviewers, but I don't want to bother people who have given up on this story, so let's say if someone has reviewed 3 times, I'll send out the extra chapter as soon as it's plot relevant without giving anything away.

Dedicated to Elantil, who reviews and edits everything. She's lovely.

**Chapter 10: Vows**

* * *

**Thursday, November 27th.**

When Hermione thinks about Harry now, she remembers him with broken glasses and clothes that are too big on him. She thinks about him a lot. More than anyone else, even Ron or her parents, which she admits to herself with a squirm of guilt in her belly. She doesn't know why she thinks about him so often. She loves him, of course, but she loves Ron and her parents, too, and she doesn't think about them nearly as much as she thinks about Harry.

Ginny is the same way, she knows.

Hermione doesn't normally sleep well at night, at least not for very long before some nightmare tugs her awake or some invisible night sound wrenches her from sleep. And then there is the horrible few seconds when she can't remember where she is and the dark is suffocating and she can still smell that dead body out there in the dark. So, to avoid this problem completely, she spends most of the night at the kitchen table with books and Crookshanks or the occasional other insomniac or late night lover who is passing through the house for a few days. Sometimes, though, exhaustion or a desire not to have to make polite conversation with strangers drags her up the stairs and into her own room, where she flops heavily on her bed and stares at the glow-in-the-dark hands of her muggle clock, waiting for morning.

Whenever she does this, Ginny turns in her sleep and more often than not, she mumbles something. Hermione doesn't know if Ginny knows that she talks in her sleep, but she figures she must know, since she shared a room with four other girls during her years at Hogwarts. It is always names that Ginny murmurs, and little nonsensical comments. Sometimes, they don't really make any sense. "Arnold, stop eating my hair!" she'll sometimes say, or "I don't want to visit Aunt Muriel." "Fred! No!" is common now, as are the names of her other brothers, but she never mentions anyone as much as she mentions "Harry." Harry, like a prayer. Harry, like a secret. Harry, so tenderly that it can only be said by a girl who has never loved another boy.

Hermione doesn't understand this fierce devotion- all of her relationships have been short-lived and more rooted in friendship than any bone-deep longing. Maybe she isn't capable of the kind of love that Ginny has for Harry. Maybe she's too cerebrally involved for that. But she wonders what it must feel like- to be so far away from your sun, moon, and stars. Hermione doesn't know how Ginny does it.

But Hermione thinks about Harry, too. In her own way, and misses him constantly. Hermione has always admired two things about Harry: The first is Harry's ability to make friends everywhere he goes. At first, when they were young, she thought it was only because fame perpetually preceded him. As they got older, though, she began to realize that there is a disarming honesty in Harry- he is so very genuine and earnest that one cannot help but to trust him. Harry really looks at you when you're talking to him- like he can't believe his good fortune that you've picked him of all people to talk to. Hermione isn't like that at all, and she knows it. She isn't unfriendly, but she refuses to turn off or dull down her intellect and this, she has long since figured out, sometimes rubs people the wrong way. She is very familiar with glazed-over stares and dismissive eyerolls, but sometimes she wishes that she could comport herself just a bit more like Harry- to drum up loyalty even in the least likely of places. This is why he is the secret weapon, more than any connection to Voldemort or any foolish prophecy. He is a beacon of hope and a rallying point without being anything other than himself. And this, Hermione firmly believes, is the trait in Harry that Dumbledore so ardently prized.

The other trait she has always respected and tried to emulate is Harry's undauntable courage. Hermione is too smart to be really brave. Her brain works too much and too fast for her to make the split-second decisions that Harry and Ron have always made. When she was a first year, the sorting hat took a long time deliberating between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, and it was her admiration for bravery which finally had her placed (after nearly four agonizing minutes). She'll face danger, of course, but she'll do it with knocking knees and a trembling wand. Harry, on the other hand, has faced certain death so many times that they greet each other like old friends when they meet. She thinks about Harry the most when she is scared, and when she is unsure of whether to proceed with what is safe or what is brave, she invariably asks herself, "What would Harry do?"

She is asking herself this question right now, as she is walking down the hall toward Malfoy's cell.

She knows exactly how she got to this point: Dawlish sent an owl to Andromeda the night before, saying that Hermione was to be ready for another trip to Azkaban in the morning, as they discussed. The prospect of going back to Azkaban is not the vaguely terrifying part. The problem is that she has no doubt that Malfoy was telling the truth about not being locked in. Had he been under the wards as was promised by the guards and by Dawlish himself, she has no doubt that he would have been unable to touch the bars of his cage, let alone to take her security ball from her. If that were not terrifying enough on its own, the fact remains that Malfoy is still in Azkaban after the warning that he issued to Dawlish in her memory. She wasn't entirely sure of what the words themselves meant (it was a very dramatic way of speaking, if nothing else), but the meaning was amply apparent: let me out or people will die.

What would Harry do? _Probably refuse to go at all unless someone explained everything to him_. But she already bargained away that option, and she wonders now if Malfoy not getting tortured was worth this for her.

Of course she spent most of yesterday trying to extract her other memories from her visits with Malfoy, but the problem with memory extraction for pensieve use is that one is left with only a dull husk of a memory, which meant that she wasn't able to get more than fuzzy pieces to view in Andromeda's pensieve, so the time spent was mostly wasted. Malfoy still being in Azkaban after his brutish warning meant one of three things: the first is that Dawlish had not yet viewed the memory, which she doubts. The second is that he had viewed the memory and was choosing not to comply. This was the worrying option because it meant that Dawlish was sending her into a conversation with a madman who might easily want her dead and was probably not actually behind a locked door. She isn't afraid of Malfoy, exactly, although she knows she has every reason to be. That, she supposed, is because he clearly has had ample time to do her in, and hasn't chosen to do so. This, in itself is a puzzle that she is eager to solve, but does not indicate that Malfoy is going to kill her. Unless, of course Dawlish is going to refuse to comply. The third option is that Dawlish was planning on complying, but as of yet had said nothing on the subject to her.

At any rate, she has to pretend that she doesn't know any of this because if she lets on that she does, Dawlish will know that she lied to him and she has no doubt that he'll be angry about that.

"Granger," Dawlish stops her with a rough hand on her shoulder and she jumps with a yelp. Dawlish ignores this. "There's something I want to mention before we go any further."

The guards are waiting patiently farther up ahead, like they knew this was coming.

"What is it?" she asks, and she is sure that he is going to tell her everything, and although she wishes he had told her sometime earlier, she is relieved that he really isn't the type to lie.

"We're going to try something new with Malfoy today," he continues, "You are to ask if he will be willing to help us scout locations. There are some places we can't get to and we need him to lead us."

_Liar_, Hermione thinks, but she doesn't say anything because she doesn't trust her mouth not to betray her. She has never been a good liar. Not like Dawlish is, anyway. She just stares at him.

"There are going to be security measures if he agrees. There won't be any trouble if he does what we say and follows orders."

"And what if he doesn't?"

"Never you mind about that. Ask him if he'll mind accompanying us to the most recent location and making an unbreakable vow."

She furrows her brow. She knows what an unbreakable vow is, of course, but she doesn't know what Dawlish plans on making Malfoy vow. Things like that are tricky at the best of times and she wonders if Dawlish has given this ample thought.

"I'll answer all of your questions about it once we're out of here, but we only have until eleven-thirty to be out of Azkaban, and I'd rather get this done today."

He sounds like he just wants to finish up as quickly as possible, but Hermione wonders if maybe he isn't trying to comply with Malfoy's three-day ultimatum, which would mean that he's more afraid of Malfoy than he's letting on. She wonders what sort of prisoner he is to them.

_What would Harry do?_

"Alright," she says, but only because she wouldn't trust Dawlish's answers if she demanded them, anyway.

* * *

"Hello, Malfoy," she says, but doesn't sit in her chair. Instead, she stands behind it, one hand braced on it. It won't move, she knows, it is bolted to the floor, but it feels good to have another solid object between them.

He is sitting at the edge of the cot when she enters and looks at her for a long time without seeming to see her. She waits for him to say something about the monster or whatever else he thinks she brings with her and, almost predictably, says "Hello to both of you, too." His eyes travel to the chair in front of her.

She pulls her hand off of the metal like it has burned her, but she is satisfied. She will copy this memory, too, in order to see if this mention of another person in the room appears.

"Two visits in one week," he says, the corner of his mouth curling up in a sneer, "to what do I owe the pleasure?"

He looks almost like his old self then, and if he did not look so horrible, she might find it in herself to say something akin to 'shove off, Malfoy.' Instead, she says coldly, "Dawlish has a proposition."

His eyes are wild, then, roaming around the room like he is looking for someone else, and maybe he is. She thinks now that he might be looking for Dawlish as he watches the memories, or will watch the memories in the future, since Malfoy clearly knows that that is what will happen. His lips move and it is so subtle that she would have missed it had she not been looking for it. This is a message for Dawlish, she knows, and she will be sure to figure out what it is when she goes over this memory later.

He doesn't say anything to her, clearly waiting for her to continue. This annoys her, but she has a job to do, so she sighs once through her nose and then says, "Dawlish wants to know if you'll help them scout a location after making an unbreakable vow."

He tilts his head to one side, "and who will be the other half?"

She shrugs, "Dawlish, I expect, but you'll have to ask him. You'll do it, then?"

"Maybe I will and maybe I won't."

She rolls her eyes, "you don't have to be cryptic, you know."

"I am not being cryptic. Send him in." He shoos her away with a hand and she notices that the skin where his nails should be is less scabbed and the slivers of nail are even longer.

Hermione sets her feet and tilts up her chin, "How do you even know he's here?"

Malfoy gives her a smile like a shark, "I can smell him on you. Smell him everywhere. Send him in." He motioned again.

"I'm not your servant, Malfoy," she grinds out instead. "I'll call him, but only so that I can get out of here that much sooner." She transfers the ball to her left hand and the door opens. The aurors do not rush in this time and Dawlish sidles in, his hands in his pockets. He does not look afraid. In fact, he looks bored.

"Dawlish," Malfoy says smoothly, and his face is blank as ice. She hadn't realized that his face could be blanker than it was when he spoke with her, but seeing the vacant look on his face now gave her a new appreciation for the microexpressions she was sometimes able to catch when they were alone together. His eyes are wicked, though, and full of a malice that Hermione has not seen in them ever before.

"Malfoy." Is the curt reply. Dawlish does not look afraid.

Hermione thinks she might be caught between a predatory animal and a mountain and wonders if maybe she should not move out of the way.

"I have some questions for you, boy." and Dawlish is in front of her then, and sits in the metal chair, effectively blocking her from Malfoy's view. This seems like a protective gesture to her, and then it occurs to her that maybe Dawlish is trying to pull Malfoy's attention as far from Hermione as possible, almost like he doesn't want her to get hurt. This notion melts her heart towards Dawlish a bit.

She steps to the side so she can get a clear view of the conversation.

Malfoy stares back at Dawlish for a long time before saying, smoothly, "To whom am I to be chained?"

"Robards. You disappeared eight months ago. Our intelligence assumed you dead. How did you survive?"

"No."

This is, clearly, not the answer that Dawlish had expected. The familiar vein in his neck emerges. Hermione watches it pulse. "What work have you been carrying out for He Who Must Not Be Named in secret?"

"I will not be tethered to an auror."

"You will be tethered to whoever I say you will be tethered. You are a prisoner, boy."

Hermione recognizes the tone very well, and she cannot help the indignant huff that leaves her. Dawlish doesn't so much as look over at her, but Malfoy's eyes slide almost imperceptibly over to her for a fraction of an instant before returning to Dawlish. She understands what is going to happen, now, and only has to wait for it to unfold.

"This is not a discussion, Dawlish. These are my terms. I am perfectly capable of living out the rest of my life in this cell and there is no need for me to fight your wars." He looks bored. He glances over to the daily prophet folded beside him.

Hermione knows that this is a lie and she knows that Dawlish knows it, too, but Dawlish cannot contradict Malfoy without exposing the lie to Hermione, and suddenly she knows that Malfoy is the one in control of this conversation. For all his blustering and his commanding demeanor, Dawlish is here asking for Malfoy's help, and Malfoy is not making it easy for him to attain. The only thing she cannot figure out is where she fits into this.

"Bullstrode," Dawlish bites out.

"The auror or the fat little girl?"

Hermione winces at the cruelty in his voice. She has a soft spot for Mallory and therefore feels protective of Millicent, who Mallory is trying so hard to protect. She stands a little straighter and chews on her tongue to keep from speaking.

"Whichever," snarls Dawlish.

This answer bothers Hermione almost as much as Malfoy's original comment, but she wonders if maybe it is levied by Dawlish to protect Mallory. Allowing Malfoy to make the bond with a fellow Slytherin is a concession, she knows, but Dawlish will not give Malfoy emotional fodder if he can help it.

"No."

"Who, then?" Dawlish throws his hands into the air and shouts so loud that his voice echoes around the chamber.

Malfoy's smile is cold and confident. "Temper, Dawlish. It isn't good for your heart to be getting so worked up over such a silly little thing," his voice is quiet, especially in the wake of Dawlish's outburst, "You'll work yourself into an early grave with a temper like that. It would not due for your wife to be widowed so young and while she is expecting besides."

All of the color drains out of Dawlish's face at this and Hermione is surprised, too. She didn't even know that Dawlish was married.

"Your guards gossip like old women, Dawlish. Invest in better help if you want your secrets kept." The cold smile never leaves his face and his teeth are shining. _Grandmother, what big teeth you have!_ Hermione thinks to herself. _All the better to eat you with, my dear._

"Who will you accept, Malfoy?" Snarls Dawlish, who clearly does not take kindly to being threatened.

"I'm sure you know, Dawlish," Malfoy practically purrs. "It shouldn't be too hard to figure out,even for you, if you really try to think."

Hermione knows. Hermione figured out where this was going as soon as Malfoy's gaze on Dawlish wavered. "Me," she says, because she knows that neither of them would show enough of their hand to volunteer her. Neither wants to act like she is as important to their plans as she knows they think she is.

"Granger, leave." Demands Dawlish without looking at her. "Go wait in the hall."

"No," she says because she doesn't like orders any more than Malfoy does, and she folds her arms across her chest, "He won't accept anyone else, as you very well know, and so I'll do it."

"You don't even know what that means, Granger. Stop agreeing to things you don't understand."

Hermione thinks that this is a bit hypocritical of him, since it is because of him that she's in this mess in the first place, and his fault that she doesn't understand half of the reason for it. "I thought that's why you let me in here at all," she counters, "because I was a good mouthpiece. I don't see how this is any different."

"He's opposed," says Malfoy without looking at her, either, "because he thinks that you won't kill me, should the need arise."

Hermione doesn't know what to say to that.

"Clearly, you have done a poor job of explaining our relationship to him. But I can't say that I'm particularly surprised. No one's ever listened to you besides that Saviour of All Things Annoying and his boyfriend, Weasel."

Hermione glares at Malfoy. "I wouldn't expect any different coming from the likes of you, Malfoy, and who, pray has ever listened to you, besides those goons who followed you like ugly dogs?"

Dawlish is ignoring both of them. "You've planned this all along, haven't you, Malfoy? You sick bastard. That's why you've left her alive when you've killed everyone else we've sent in. So that you'd be bound to her and you'd convince her to set you free."

Malfoy and Hermione both look at Dawlish, appalled.

"I would never-" begins Hermione, her voice high with indignance, but Malfoy cuts her off.

"As lunatic as that sentiment is, I can guarantee that if you attempt to chain me to any other living being, I will break the vow myself and I will end all concern about this once and for all. You need me more alive than dead."

"Would you mind terribly _not_ _interrupting me, Malfoy?!"_

"I don't make deals with Death Eaters," snarls Dawlish.

"Then it is lucky you do not have to begin now," Malfoy replies coldly.

It is silent while Hermione ponders this and Dawlish thinks whatever it is that Dawlish is prone to thinking.

"You will be transported tomorrow to a different location. The spell will be placed and then you will assist my aurors. Should you fail in your duties, you will be terminated, and Granger won't have any say in that matter at all. I'll hold her down and Avada you myself if I have to."

* * *

When they get back to Andromeda's. Dawlish sits down at the table and says, "Well, if you're going to drown me in questions, now's as good a time as any."

She sits down opposite him, "I understand that the function of an unbreakable vow is continued control, but I fail to see how it actually works in this case."

Dawlish pulls his wand from his pocket and places them on the table between them. "Pretty straightforward, really. This," he waves his wand and a small blank stick figure pops into being on the table's surface, "is you. This," he waves his wand and a second figure appears, "is Malfoy. You'll make the vow by joining hands, naming the terms of agreement, and then a third party will bind you two." The two stick figures perform a small vow on the table and a tiny gold string shines between them for a moment.

"Yes," she says as patiently as she can, even though she hates it when people underestimate her intelligence like this, "I have read about unbreakable vows before. I fail to understand, though, precisely how it is going to be used in this case."

Dawlish waves his wand and the stick figures vanish. "We're going to make the vow that he must work for the good guys and, if given a direct order by you, he'll have to obey. And he can't kill any of us. Also, if you die, the vow transfers to me, or whoever I choose."

"So, essentially, I will have the power to order him to do anything and, if he doesn't do it, he'll die?"

"Yep."

"Will I have to be present for the ordering of him?" she asks.

"Course you will," is his gruff reply, "otherwise, he won't have to obey, but he still won't be able to betray us."

"That's barbaric!" a hand flies to her chest in outrage and disgust. "What if I order him to do something impossible or-"

"You won't. But I'll tell you right now, girl, if you let him go out of some crazed sense of compassion or misguided sense of humanity, you'll be responsible for more deaths than you can count."

"What do you mean?" she asks slowly.

"Malfoy didn't just kill his two cellmates, he also killed a guard we sent in polyjuiced as you, and he killed one of the aurors who was questioning him-"

"Torturing," corrected Hermione.

"_Questioning_, Granger." Dawlish snarls back, "he killed that guard. He wasn't even free when he did it- he was chained to a chair, but when the guard leaned near him to hear what he was whispering," Dawlish shakes his head, "Well, let's just say I know why he wanted the teeth now."

She takes a few calming breaths because she still has questions and arguing with Dawlish is always counterproductive. "Alright, do you have a copy of the oath you want to make?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"May I see it?" She holds out a hand expectantly.

Dawlish looks like he wants to argue with her about this. He pulls a roll of parchment from the pocket of his robes. "Don't mention Addie to the others."

"I am going to assume that Addie is your wife. If you don't want her mentioned, maybe Malfoy is right and you shouldn't have told the guards."

He shrugs, and doesn't hand over the parchment. "That's my problem, not yours. I just don't want word getting out. The only one around here who knows is Mallory, and I'd like to keep it that way."

Instead of asking why Mallory is the only one who knows, which is what she really wants to ask, Hermione just says, "Fine," and Dawlish hands over the roll of parchement.

She unfurls it, and her eyes move rapidly across its surface. She grimmaces. "This won't do at all. Too many loopholes. I'll rewrite it tonight."

Dawlish chews the inside of his cheek to think about this. "Alright," he finally says, "Owl me a copy when you finish. I'll be here to take you in for the meeting at four in the morning, alright? I want to have this finished and get you back here before anyone even notices you're gone. Fair?"

Hermione nods once. "Agreed."

"Before I go, I'll want that memory."

"I'll go take care of that now," she says, and stands, already reciting the duplication spell to herself in her head. "I've got vials in my room."

Dawlish nods and leans back in his chair. For the first time, he looks as tired as Lupin always does, and his face is drawn in innumerable lines of worry. "I'll be waiting right here."

* * *

**Friday, November 28th.**

The next morning, as early as was promised, Dawlish arrives to take her to a different safe-house. It is a house she has never been to before, and when they apparate outside of it, she sees that it is small- much smaller than Andromeda's house and nestled among high trees.

They crunch through deep snow to get to the front door, which Dawlish wrenches open with a grunt.

They step immediately into a small kitchen, and the only source of light is gray morning light that is shining in streaks through filthy windows. Hermione knows it is a kitchen because there is an old-fashioned muggle stove in one corner, and it is covered in rust. They stand and silently wait, stamping the snow off their boots. Hermione is thankful that Dawlish mentioned that she needed to dress for cold weather. She casts a warming charm as quietly as she can.

They aren't waiting long. There is the crack of apparition from the yard and then two guards tramp inside, snow falling from their thick, black boots. They have between them the still form of Malfoy floating in the air. He is drenched in chains and unconscious, his head lolling to one side. They drop him unceremoniously to the floor and Hermione wonders if this ill-treatment is not to avenge the guard he murdered. His face is only inches from her boots and she sees now that the bruises on his face are gone and his nose is straight once again. He is still thin- much too thin- but he looks more like himself than Hermione has seen him before. She can't see his hands, which are bound behind him, but she knows that if she looks at them, there will be perfect, pale nails on each finger. They've erased everything they've done, like it never happened at all, and she wonders, then, if this isn't its own kind of torture- to have nothing but memories to prove what you've been through. There will be no battle scars for Malfoy. No proof even to himself what he endured.

She shudders.

"Wake him up," barks Dawlish, "he's got to do this willingly or it won't work."

One of the guards ennervates Malfoy, who opens his eyes like he's been awake the whole time, and he glances from side to side, his gaze finally tilting up at Hermione. She won't be the first to break eye contact and so she stares challenge into his dull gray eyes.

"Malfoy," Dawlish spits the name like it tastes bad, "Will you make the unbreakable vow?"

"Who is on the other end?" he asks smoothly, although his voice sounds hoarse and strained. Like there had been a boot on his throat until not too long ago.

"I am," Hermione hears herself saying and Malfoy's gaze never wavers from hers.

He nods.

"Right, then. Granger, you've got to be the one to touch him." She looks up and Dawlish is holding his wand pointed at Malfoy like he can think of a hundred things he would rather be doing with it.

The chains around Malfoys wrists vanish with a wave of Dawlish's wand, and he turns slightly on his side to pull them out from under himself. Carefully, she steps around Malfoy's prone body and takes his hand in hers. His fingers close ever so slightly around her palm. His wrists are an angry red from the chains.

"Position, Granger."

She doesn't even glance back at Dawlish, but squats down beside Malfoy. Even though she tries not to look at him while she speaks, she can feel his eyes on her and so she glares back at him in challenge.

"Malfoy," Dawlish snarls.

"I know what is expected of me," is the cool reply. "

Dawlish scowls. "One wrong move, boy, and you're dead."

"Riveting, Dawlish," drolls Malfoy, "Compelling as always, I see."

"Go on, Granger," Dawlish gives her shoulder a small squeeze, "Last warning, Malfoy."

Malfoy doesn't even glance up at Dawlish and instead keeps his eyes on Hermione as she begins to speak. Her wand is clenched so tightly in her left fist that its base cuts into her palm. "Will you, Draco Malfoy, work exclusively for the Order of the Pheonix and its members, refrain from injuring or killing any order members or affiliates unnecessarily, obey all orders given by Dawlish or by me, Hermione Granger, or other hitherto unmentioned third parties that can be added at a later time by either myself or by Dawlish?" She says it all in one breath, the words practiced and precise.

Malfoy's long fingers tighten slightly around her fingers before he says, "I will."

Dawlish waves his wand between them, and a golden light shoots from its tip and wraps itself around Draco and Hermione's wrists, binding them together. The spell doesn't feel like anything around her hands, but the golden glow lights Malfoy's face, making him look more skeletal than usual.

As soon as the light is gone, Hermione drops Malfoy's hand unceremoniously. She stares at her wrist, and feels inexplicably dirty, like she just did something that she wasn't supposed to do at all in the first place. She wonders what Harry would say if he knew what she just did. She misses him terribly.

"Right. Let's test the connection."

Hermione glances at Dawlish, unsure of how to proceed.

"Stand over there," Dawlish points to the farthest corner from the one where Malfoy is propped, "And just give him some order."

She clenches her fist and thinks hard about what she should tell Malfoy to do. "Clap your hands," she says hesitantly.

Malfoy claps his hands together once. Perfunctorily.

"Very good, Granger," and Dawlish sounds pleased with the results, even though Hermione thinks that Malfoy would be just as likely to obey to make it seem like he has to follow orders, even if he doesn't.

"Right then," Dawlish turns back to the guards, "take Malfoy to the discussed location."

The guards nod, stun Malfoy, and vanish with a crack like a couple of whips.

"Where are they taking him?" Hermione asks Dawlish in the silence in the wake of their departure.

"We've got holding cells in a safehouse where he'll stay until we need him. And don't look at me like that, Granger. Compared to Azkaban, this is like a stay in the minister's quarters."

Dawlish apparates with her back to Andromeda's and leaves her there alone with her thoughts.

* * *

That evening, Hermione is joined at the kitchen table by Ginny. Seamus, Dean and Lavender, who are staying at Andromeda's for the weekend, wander in fifteen minutes later and Hermione finds herself surrounded by loud and happy voices for the first time in months.

They mostly talk about life at Hogwarts, because no one really seems to want to talk about what is happening now, or the fact that Seamus, Dean, and Lavender are only here so that they can attend Williamson's funeral on Sunday morning. Ginny and Dean argue about quidditch loudly, and everyone sings the school song as loud as they can. Andromeda comes in and casts a scathing look around when she says, "Some of us are trying to sleep." and then swirls back out of the kitchen in a flurry of dressing gown and anger.

Lavender looks sour, like she wants to say something, but before she can, Ginny says quietly, "Just leave it, ok? Ted's been missing for about a week now."

A hush falls over them for a long moment after that, but then Dean smiles to himelf and says, "Do you remember the DA?"

Lavender and Dean share shy smiles when they think no one else is looking and Hermione laughs until her sides ache when Ginny does a very convincing impression of Seamus during their time in the DA when they were paired up to practice stunning spells. She is the happiest she has been in months, if not longer, and she is able to forget about everything that has gone wrong- the monstrous curse and Malfoy and even the dull ache where Harry and Ron ought to be.


	11. Dinner and a Show

**Chapter 11: Dinner and a Show**

**A/N: **Just so we are abundantly clear on the topic, reading and answering reviews are consistently the highlight of my week, and there have been some shitty weeks. As a special thank-you, my consistent reviewers are going to get a Bonus!Malfoy chapter as soon as it can be given without ruining stuff.

Edit: Elantil edits and so I offer her this chapter as compensation.

**I AM MOVING IN TWO WEEKS AND MY UPDATES MAY SUFFER AS A RESULT**

* * *

**Saturday, November 29th.**

"Andromeda," she asks as she puts away breakfast dishes, "Can I borrow your pensieve again?"

Andromeda sighs heavily, "I would say yes, but Dawlish borrowed it for business, and I don't know when I'll get it back. I shall inform you when it has been returned, if you'd like."

"Yes, please," she says, but she knows that the pensieve will not be returned any time soon, if ever.

* * *

**Friday, December 5th.**

The next time she sees Malfoy, he is standing between two aurors she doesn't know and his hands are bound in front of him, but otherwise he looks unharmed. Both wands are trained on him, but he doesn't seem to notice. They are here for the meeting, she knows, and they are early because they want to secure Malfoy at Andromeda's before anyone else arrives, just in case he decides to lash out. Ginny cranes her neck and stands on tiptoes to see him and sucks in her breath when she does.

They march him from the fireplace in the living room into the kitchen where the meeting will take place in ten minutes. Hermione and Ginny aren't invited, of course, as neither of them are allowed to fight still and even Ginny is starting to get annoyed at this.

"So he's the informant," she mutters darkly to Hermione. "Why do we trust anything he says?"

The fireplace roars into life again and they watch as Dawlish and Lupin step into the house, carefully wiping their feet on the mat to keep from stomping ash into the carpet. Once they too have gone into the kitchen, Hermione waves her wand and cleans up the carpet. This is how she and Ginny have managed to get even this close to the meeting- they volunteered to help Andromeda keep the carpets clean and although it is a painfully dull task and degrading besides, they both do it so they can see who will be at this meeting, which will give them a good idea on who they should worry for in the coming days, and who they shouldn't be surprised to learn has died violently, cruelly, and at the hands of the enemy.

"Because we don't have a choice," Hermione replies once the door swings shut behind Lupin and Dawlish, "It's either we listen to him, or we stumble blindly through this war."

"Maybe that would be better," grumbles Ginny as the fire blazes green again, "At least then we'd know what we're getting ourselves into."

She falls asleep with a book on her lap, waiting for the meeting to end.

* * *

**Saturday, December 6th.**

The battle is a cruel one and there are new curses. She knows this because she is shaken awake by Ginny as the sun is going down and Ginny's red hair is framed by a red halo and everything looks vermillion because even Ginny's face is streaked with blood. "Hermione," the younger witch hisses, "something went wrong. Dean and Marcia are in the kitchen and they're bleeding and mum's trying to do the best she can, but oh god, please-please help."

Hermione is on her feet and Crookshanks is tumbling to the floor from where he was in her lap and she is sprinting from the living room to the kitchen like her feet are on fire.

There is more blood on the floor than there should have been housed in either body, but the blood is still leaking from the two bodies on the floor, although there are no visible wounds. The blood, instead, peppers the surfaces of their skin in thin rivulets, streaming unchecked from their pores.

Hermione takes a shuddering breath in, draws her wand, and takes over for Molly in pouring blood replenishing potion after blood replenishing potion down their throats as Mrs. Weasley starts casting every counter curse and healing spell she knows. Ginny and Andromeda are smearing healing balms and dittany across all exposed skin, but nothing seems to work.

At 12:03 in the morning, they run out of blood replenishing potions.

* * *

Hermione holds Ginny until she cries herself to sleep that night before she even goes to shower all the blood off of herself. After her shower, her hair is puffy and she is still picking Dean's blood out from under her fingernails as she pads down the stairs into the kitchen.

Andromeda had long since finished cleaning the floors and someone else had removed the bodies. Now, two aurors are sitting at the table, looking haunted over their shot glasses of firewhiskey.

They ignore her as she fishes a mug out of the cupboard and taps her wand on the kettle to make it boil.

"I still don't like it," says one, who she recognizes as April Marc- a middle-aged hitwitch who she's never really spoken with.

"We don't have to like it," replies the other, who is a young man with a strong Russian accent, "but he did what Dawlish asked and then he got out of our way, which is better than the last Niffler did."

"Yeah, well, he's smarter than the last one. Seems a bit daft in the head, though, doesn't he?"

"They all are. Have to be, to side with You-Know-Who, don't you think?"

Hermione dips the teabag into the mug and reaches for the honey.

"How long do you think he'll last?"

"You-Know-Who?"

"No, Malfoy."

The Russian wizard leans back in his chair and considers his drinking partner. "Don't know. Could be days, could be weeks. Seemed happy to help, though, so maybe longer. Did Dawlish ever say where he was when we caught him?"

"No. Not that I know of, anyway."

"Do you think he came willingly, then? Maybe he switched sides himself and this is just to see how loyal he really is?"

Hermione takes her mug into the sitting room and leaves the witch and wizard to their speculation. She has reading to do and doesn't have time for half-baked theories about Malfoy.

* * *

**Sunday, December 14th.**

"Dawlish," she says when she sees him next- sitting at Andromeda's scrubbed table, "I need to talk to Malfoy." She is still wearing black from Dean's funeral and she removes her travelling cloak, dusting the snow off of it as she goes to hang it on the hook by the back door. The funeral's reception had moved on to a pub down the way, where people were toasting to Dean's life, but Hermione couldn't get the image of his body soaked in his own blood, her own hands sliding against skin to help him up as he chokes, only to finally reach down his throat to pull the blood clot, long and slimy, out by hand. So she came back here to try to regain some sense of peace, and for a calming draught. It's lucky that Dawlish is here, and she will use this opportunity.

He looks up from his big bowl of shepherd's pie just to make sure she is serious. "No you don't." Then he shoves another hefty spoonful into his mouth.

Her lips thin. "Yes, I do, actually. Lucius Malfoy has been using a new curse and I want to know if Malfoy- the one _we _have- knows anything about it."

"Why don't you just research it in your books?" He is speaking around a mouthful of food, his cheeks puffed out almost comically. He gestures with his spoon. "The ones you're always reading."

"I can't find anything about it in the books I have right now, Dawlish, and I can't get more because the death eaters still have the ministry." She enunciates clearly and wishes he would stop eating to talk to her.

He considers her then, moves a mouthful of food from one cheek to the other while he thinks. "And you think Malfoy will know about it?"

She shrugs, "We don't have any other death eaters in custody who would be willing to help, and if it's an heirloom curse, Malfoy might know about it."

He leans back in his chair, and looks long and hard at her. "Alright, Granger. I'll see what I can arrange."

* * *

**Monday, December 15th.**

Sometimes she is so tired that she can hardly see straight. No one sleeps well anymore. Everyone is plagued with nightmares, and everyone wakes up tired these days. That's one of the things they don't tell you about war- how bone tired you get and how bone tired you stay all the time.

She didn't used to dream, but now, sometimes, she does, and when she does dream, it is about dark rooms or her friends bleeding out, their wide panicked eyes begging her for help even as they spill over with unstoppable blood. Ginny has these nightmares, too. She doesn't say Harry's name in her sleep anymore because the time for good dreams has already passed. Now she mumbles in her sleep and sometimes she screams, and when she screams, Hermione wakes her up, but she can never remember what it was she was dreaming about. Hermione envies that. When Hermione dreams, she always remembers what they were in the morning and she never wakes up before they are finished.

* * *

**Wednesday, December 17th.**

Dawlish takes her to a safehouse that she doesn't recognize and leaves her at a kitchen table. The kitchen door swings shut behind him and Hermione can hear the low rumble of male voices in the hallway. There is a crack of apparition, and Dawlish walks back in.

This is a muggle house converted for the purposes of wizards, and she knows this because of the microwave that hangs slightly off of its hinges, and is being used as potion storage. The fluorescent lights above the table hum quietly and give her the beginnings of a headache. They flicker and dim from time to time as a powersource gives out. It isn't snowing here, wherever they are, and the house is completely silent, although she knows that they cannot be alone. Safehouses are never completely empty these days. The ministry has been coming out with anti-muggleborn decree after anti-muggleborn decree and with every new installment, more witches and wizards go into hiding or join up with the aurors or the order.

She suspects that this is an order-run house because it lacks all of the finer things that Andromeda gets for her affiliation with the aurors of the Ministry. There is no bread on the counter, no half-empty bottles of firewhiskey and no parade of familiars around her ankles, although there are dirty dishes in the sink.

"Granger," and it is not Dawlish who says it. Her head snaps up. Malfoy is leaning against the doorway like he owns it, his arms folded against his chest. He isn't wearing his Azkaban uniform anymore- someone must have returned Harry and Ron's clothing to him, because that is what he is wearing now- Ron's too-big shirt and Harry's too-tight pants and the moth-eaten socks she'd found under the bed, but he looks as comfortable in these articles of clothing than she has ever seen him look in anything. There is a thick chain around his neck, and a thick-set wizard with angry eyes holding the other end of the leash. His wand is squarely in the center of Malfoy's back.

"Move, Malfoy," the surly wizard snarls. As if the idea just occurred to him, Malfoy straightens, walks forward, and sits down at the table across from her. His hair is longer now- white-blonde fluff- and there is a thin shadow of stubble across his jaw. He looks tired and hungry, but more alive that she has hitherto seen him look. Dawlish scowls as Malfoy sits. "Wait outside," he orders the guard, who removes the length of chain with a wave of his wand, and steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind himself.

Dawlish casts a silencing charm, and stands with his arms folded, staring stonily at Malfoy, his wand casually pointed at the other wizard under his arm. Hermione takes this as her signal to start.

"Hello, Malfoy," she says.

His eyes slide briefly out of focus and she wonders where his mind goes, because it is certainly not still with her at this kitchen table in this dimly lit muggle house.

"Malfoy," she says again, sharply this time, and his gaze snaps back to her. "I need to know what you know about a curse."

"How nice to see you too, Granger. I note that normal pleasantries are not lost on you." He sounds so cordial when he says it that it takes her a moment to realize that he is making fun of her.

Dawlish, who is standing with his arms crossed against his chest, scowls down at Malfoy.

"Good to see that you are as much an insufferable git as always, Malfoy," she returns evenly, "They've started using a new curse."

"Who has?"

"Don't play dumb."

"I guarantee that the question is in fact relevant to the discussion at hand, Granger," his voice is smooth and dangerous. He is oil and a lit match.

"Rabastan Lestrange," she says and it is half-true. Rabastan did cast the curse once, but the main perpetrator was Lucius Malfoy. His curses hit Marcia and Dean, Rabastan's missed Ernie by half a foot. She doesn't know what information he'll give to her if she mentions his father, though.

He considers this for a moment. "What will you give me in return, should I help you?" his voice is smooth and light, like he doesn't care one way or the other how she answers.

"Malfoy," growls Dawlish.

"I don't know Malfoy," she huffs, doing her best to ignore Dawlish. She suspects that Malfoy won't talk to him, or even talk to her if he inserts himself into the conversation too much. "What do you want?" She isn't really in any position to be bargaining. She knows she only even got this meeting because Dawlish thinks her work is important.

"A discussion over dinner, like civilized witches and wizards."

"We don't have time to schedule a dinner, Malfoy."

"Perhaps tonight, then. Now seems fine to me, as it is only about half an hour until I am normally fed, correct, Dawlish?"

She glances at Dawlish who nods, even though he is scowling.

Malfoy, who has also turned toward Dawlish and is awaiting a response, smirks. "Excellent. Then I shall await your return with something more palatable than your- what did you call them, Dawlish? Spaghetti-ohs?" He draws his face up in distaste, like even the word is foul in his mouth.

Grumbling to himself, Dawlish points his wand at Malfoy, who amends quickly, "I am sure that Granger and I can continue our discussion in your absence, Dawlish, and I am sure that Hermione will have no qualms about hexing me into oblivion should the need arise." He gives her a conspiratorial wink that makes her stomach heave in revulsion. She has her wand out and on him without even thinking about it.

Dawlish still binds Malfoy to his chair before leaving with a snap of apparition.

"Now then, Granger," Malfoy leans forward against the ropes like they are comfortable, which she is sure that they are not. "where were we."

"The curse is-"

"Not yet," he cuts in, "such serious conversation ought to be started and finished over dinner. For now, pleasantries."

If looks could kill, Malfoy would be on fire already.

"Tell me how things are in your circle, Granger," he continues, "How is the Weasel? How is Potter? Still looking for that secret link to defeating The Dark Lord?"

She hates the way he says it- the Dark Lord- like he is a god for worship. More than that, though, she hates the way he talks about Harry and Ron. Most of all, though, she hates that he seems to know that Harry is not around. "What are you talking about?" she answers, because she will be damned if she will tell the nasty Ferret any more than she has to about anything, least of all Harry.

"Oh, don't play dumb with me, Granger. It's all that any of these ministry fools talk about- when Harry Potter might come back."

She glares at him.

"And how is your other friend- the tall one?"

The lights around them flicker and the microwave door slams shut.

Malfoy looks around with a crazed smile. "Doesn't like to be mentioned, I see."

A crack spiderwebs up the window with a sound like ice cracking.

"Malfoy," she says slowly, "stop it."

"How far will it go, Granger?" he asks her without looking at her. His smile is giddy now and he looks fully alive for the first time since she rescued him from the death eaters. "Will it kill us? Maim us? What is the fine line in the sand?"

_BAM!_ something slams down on the table between them and it splinters, crumpling in the middle. She jumps back with a shout of surprise and topples her chair backwards to the floor, but he remains where he is- still bound to his chair, unable to run, and he is laughing. His eyes are wild now- there is nothing like humanity left in them and there is nothing but joy stretched across his face. Her chair is thrown back against the wall and shatters into tiny splinters and still he laughs.

"Stupefy!" she shouts and his head drops forward, the laugh still frozen on his lips. As soon as he is unconscious, she turns to the chair, points her wand at it, and snaps "_Reparo!"_

She has just enough time to fix the table, seat herself at the table, and enervate Malfoy before Dawlish pops back onto the location, wearing his signature scowl and glaring murder at the captive. He has a shopping bag clenched in one fist, which clanks with silverware when he places the half-eaten pie dish on the freshly repaired table.

"Why Dawlish," Malfoy's head lolls back lazily as he looks toward Dawlish, "Did you bring me shepherd's pie? Too kind. You really shouldn't have."

The three of them sit and eat, and Malfoy listens politely as Hermione tells him about the curse. As soon as she's talking about how Dean died, though, she finds that she has no appetite and her portion of Shepherd's pie remains mostly untouched. She explains about the bleeding and she tells him about the flash of purple-blue light that the others reported before the curses found their marks, about the slow and agonizing deaths that followed.

"How slow, exactly, Granger?" he asks as calmly as if he is asking about the weather. He takes another small forkful after he finishes speaking, and not before.

She gives him a revolted stare as answer.

"I am asking, Granger," he says and sounds so completely sane that she hardly believes her own memory of him less than an hour before, "because I can think of three spells that can cause a person to bleed out and I would like the full and detailed story before I give erroneous advice."

"The first subject," _Marcia,_ Hermione remembers, and tries to push the scared and leaking face from her mind, "was treated for about two and a half hours before she succumbed. The second subject lasted roughly five hours before he passed away." _Because we tried to much harder to save him_, Hermione thinks but doesn't say, _because we poured all of the blood replenishing potions in the house down his throat and he just kept bleeding and bleeding anyway. Because Mrs. Weasley restarted his heart three times and because he was so afraid to die. Ginny held his hand, even though the blood leaking from under his nail beds was dripping down her arms and beading at her elbows. Because he was young. Because he deserved to live._

Malfoy watches her with an intense curiosity, like he is trying to read her mind in the planes of her face. "And the blood- was it dark red or light red as it exited the body?"

She has to think about this for a moment. She remembers the blood at first as bright-stop sign red, smeared across Andromeda's white tile floor, but then she remembers how much darker it was leaking out of Dean's pores, so dark that it was almost purple. So dark that it almost didn't look real.

"Dark red." she says finally.

He takes another bite of shepherd's pie while he considers this. He chews slowly, swallows, takes a long drink of water, licks his lips and finally says, "Venticulo-scalpere."

She considers this for a moment. It is not a curse that she knows.

"Related to sectum-sempra," he continues as if he is explaining a basic transfiguration concept, "but much older. The precursor, in fact. Related, too, to arterio-scalpere, and much more closely. It's probably been modified, of course, since the blood flow would eventually cease on its own, given five hours. I trust you tried a coagulation charm?"

"Several," she replies and tries to staunch the memories. She tries not to think about her wand, slick with blood against Dean's temple. She tries not to think about his whimper of pain and how he began to claw at his scalp once the blood flow began to slow, how he began to convulse with his eyes rolled back in his head, the foam from his mouth and the slow, slug-like blood clot that eventually slithered out his ear, minutes after they realized that he was already dead.

He places his fork and spoon at the twelve o'clock position, turns to Dawlish and says, "Might I request a piece of parchment and a quill?"

Dawlish just glares up from his own plate, but Hermione reaches over into her bag and pulls a quill and a roll of parchment from its depths. She passes them wordlessly across to Malfoy, who pushes his dirty dishes to one side and begins to write. He is left handed, she notices, which is something she never noticed before and he holds the quill with all of his fingers cramped towards the tip and his hand curved at an awkward angle. It isn't a particularly graceful gesture, but it is practiced and sure and when he turns the parchment back towards her, the handwriting is so elegant that she knows at once he was probably tutored in penmanship from a young age. Written in even lines and columns are a list of ingredients, and her eyes sweep quickly over the page.

"It's a modified blood replenishing potion," she says and looks up at him questioningly.

"Cleverest witch of our age," he says, and it almost sounds like an insult.

"Is this your invention, Malfoy?" she asks and tries to keep her voice light.

"No," he replies, "it is not."

"Then whose is it?"

"Does it really matter so much, Granger?" asks Dawlish gruffly.

"Yes," she snaps back, "Because if they aren't a death eater-"

"Then we can use this spell on the death eaters!" Dawlish is looking at her like he has never really seen her before in his life.

"Yes," she bites out. She is not in favor of torture, not even on death eaters, but two friends have now died in her arms and she is sick of war. She tries not to think about what sort of monster this makes her.

"It is known to the death eaters," supplies Malfoy and his expression is unreadable, "and the spell is difficult to master. Brew the potion first, and then begin to think offensively."


	12. Blood and Bile

**A/N: **Ok, I know you guys have had to wait a long time for this, so I'll keep this note short: MY LIFE IS INSANE RIGHT NOW AND I HAVE NO TIME FOR ANYTHING. Updates probably won't be regular for a while now, but I've got this for you. Thanks for still being here. I really appreciate it.

**Chapter 12: Blood and Bile**

* * *

**Thursday, December 18th.**

She closes The Monster Book of Monsters with a sharp snap, leans back in her chair and sighs. Nothing about invisible creatures that stalk people. There is nothing in any of her old Defense Against the Dark Arts books, or any of the Standard Books of spells, either. She's even looked into taboos, but she cannot think of any way to explain the strange occurrences that have plagued her in the last few months. She tries to run her fingers through her hair, and she is still trying to disentangle them when Ginny walks into the kitchen.

"Good morning," Ginny says with a great yawn she doesn't bother trying to stifle. "How long have you been up?" She pulls a clean bowl off of the drying tray and heads toward the cupboard, looking for breakfast.

"Since yesterday," Hermione answers with another sigh as she finally extracts her hands. Maybe she should shower, or at least do something about her hair. They don't have much shampoo left in the house, so Hermione's hair looks like a rat's nest and Ginny's lies in greasy clumps against her skull. Maybe she should leave the safehouse to restock on supplies, since she is starting to doubt that the Order will pull through for them any time soon.

Ginny plops down at the other end of the table with a bowl of dry cereal and begins picking marshmallows out with her fingers, popping them into her mouth. "Wow. Was that meeting with Dawlish that bad yesterday?"

Hermione never mentioned to anyone that she is/has been seeing Malfoy for information. This decision is reached because she knows that if Ginny suspects that the potion currently brewing in their bedroom is prescribed by Draco Malfoy, she will never let it reach completion, and even if it did, she will never use it on anyone if she could help it. Hermione, however, has other plans.

"Yeah," Hermione says, "I'm just trying to figure something out."

* * *

**Saturday, December 20th**

The potion takes three days to brew, but finally it is done. It smells like blood and bile — metallic and acidic at once, and completely unpleasant. She hopes she won't have to use it, and she is afraid of what will happen if it doesn't work. She does not want to fight for a life for five more hours only to lose it in the end. She sleeps fitfully and dreams about Malfoy bleeding out, laughing and laughing the whole time.

* * *

**Sunday, December 21st.**

She is sitting at the kitchen table with Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, Andromeda, and Nan, the mediwitch. None of them are speaking because they know that today the Order is raiding another known death eater nest. The table is lined with blood replenishing potions and a cauldron full of Malfoy's potion, which Hermione has told everyone she found in a book. Mrs. Weasley's face is drawn in a grimace at the stench radiating off of the cauldron. Andromeda is subtly breathing through her mouth. Nan has actually cast a bubble head charm around her head. Hermione and Ginny don't even notice the smell anymore. For two weeks, it has soaked into their clothing and into their skin and hair. For two weeks, they haven't smelled anything else. In retrospect, Hermione thinks that maybe she should have brewed it somewhere besides their bedroom, but she didn't want to risk letting something go wrong or giving anyone else the chance to tamper with it.

The bell above the sink jingles, signaling someone's arrival via portkey in the back yard. Wands drawn, Hermione and Andromeda edge the back door open, but Malfoy barges past them and into the house. It takes a moment for everyone to realize that he is supporting the oozing body of Ernie MacMillan. All wands are on him as he lays Ernie gently on the floor. Hermione takes a step toward him first, not taking her eyes or her wand off of him. "What did we eat the last time we met?" she asks.

"Pie," he replies. He closes his eyes for a moment, and she knows what he is looking for. This, more than his answer, proves who he is.

"It's him," she announces to the room, and as if the group of healers have been unfrozen by some spell, they fall upon Ernie at once. They tip a ladle full of the horrid smelling potion down his throat and he does his best to swallow, but he is barely conscious and his eyes are glazed over. Ginny massages his throat until he opens his mouth and it is empty.

Nothing happens and he continues to leak blood onto the white tile floor, just like Dean did.

Her eyes roll towards Draco, who is watching the events unfold like they are a boring television program and Hermione, quelling panic, shouts, "What are you doing just standing there? Help us!" She doesn't yell it because it is Malfoy or because she thinks he'll be useful without a wand and half mad. She doesn't yell it because she wants to save him or help him or give him something to do. She doesn't yell it because she believes that he can be saved. She yells it because she has known Ernie since they were children and even though he is pompous and a bit of an idiot sometimes, he is bleeding out all over her hands and she wants someone, anyone, everyone to help. To do something. To save this boy who was eleven and waiting in line for the Sorting Hat and who talked loudly about the DA even when he wasn't supposed to. She shouts it because Ernie needs help.

Hermione murmurs healing spells along the visible lines of his veins and arteries (because she can't tell which ones are bleeding through the thin film of blood coating his skin) on the right side of his body. Andromeda murmurs similar spells along his left side while Nan wipes away the blood ahead of Andromeda's wand. Molly mans the door for other arrivals and Ginny helps Ernie swallow more of the modified potion and blood replenishing potions alternately. Malfoy falls in beside Hermione, using a damp cloth to wipe blood away along his skin to clear a path for her wand, so she can trace the veins for her spells. She is too focused on helping Ernie to be surprised by this.

After about twenty-five minutes of this, though, they notice a gradual decrease in the blood leaking from his nose, ears, eyes, and mouth. After half of an hour, he turns on his side and vomits a partially-congealed blood clot onto the tile. After thirty-eight minutes, Hermione stops muttering spells. After forty minutes, Ernie smacks away the towel Malfoy has been using to wipe his face and murmurs a weak, "You're just spreading it around at this point," and Hermione laughs, more in relief than actual humor. After forty-three minutes, Andromeda scourgifies the floor and Nan levitates Ernie upstairs to rest. After forty-four minutes, three others are carried in, barely conscious and dripping blood, and it begins again.

It is long after midnight and the battle has been over for more than an hour, but they have only just sent the last of the injured to rest. Ginny and Hermione have each given up their beds and Mrs. Weasley has gone back to the Burrow. Nan and Andromeda are seeing to the six total patients upstairs and so Ginny, Hermione, and Malfoy are sitting at the table. They are all covered in blood. Ginny is picking it out from under the nails of her left hand with the nails of her right, her wand on the table in front of her. Hermione murmurs quiet scourgifies over her pants, one small patch of stained blue jean after another, and watching the blood fade into nothing. Malfoy stares at a patch on the wall behind Hermione and doesn't seem to notice anything else.

Hermione and Ginny take turns glancing warily up at Malfoy, but no one has made a move to bind him, mostly because he hasn't done anything more dangerous than wring a blood-soaked rag out in the sink and run water over it to get the worst of the stains out since he first showed up with Ernie. Even now he is just sitting in his chair, hypnotized by something neither of the witches can see.

Andromeda wanders down the stairs and collapses in a seat at the head of the table. It seems to take all of her strength to hold her bones together, but her posture is as perfect as always, her graying blonde hair is swept back from her face in an elegant bun. Hermione wonders vaguely how she still manages to look so good when they are completely out of shampoo.

"I don't get it," Ginny says finally, once she has given up on cleaning her nails. She drops her head forward to rest on her arms which are folded on the table, her wand poking up toward her face. She is across from Malfoy. She is staring at him like he will attack her. Her eyes narrow like she wants him to, just so she'll have an excuse to hex him. "Why did you help?"

He continues staring at the wall like he hasn't heard her. Hermione recognizes the glazed look in his eyes. She knows what he sees.

Ginny glances at the wall behind Hermione and when her eyes register only empty space, she turns back to Malfoy. "Oi!" she barks, raising her head slightly.

Under the table, Hermione nudges Malfoy's leg with her foot. His eyes drop slowly, like he is bored. "I beg your pardon?" He says mildly.

"Ginny asked why you stayed to help, Malfoy," Hermione repeats, loud and clear, her eyes wide with warning. Now is not the time to dislocate from reality, or to point out the existence of invisible monsters.

He stares at her, his eyes unfocused. "I was asked," he replies, and he directs his answer to Hermione although he doesn't look at her, not really. His eyes remain unfocused, his mouth a thin neutral line. "When one is asked, one must comply."

"So you only stayed because we forced you into it, is that it?" Ginny's chin juts forward aggressively.

"I think," says Hermione, trying to diffuse a fight before it becomes unstoppable. "That he only means that we asked for his help, so he helped us."

Ginny is sitting up, though, and her bright eyes flash dangerously. "But it doesn't make _sense_! He's a death eater! He's one of them!"

"That is an erroneous assumption," says Malfoy and he sounds vague and far away. "Not based in fact." He unclasps his hands, raising his right hand like a conductor before an orchestra. Ginny is on her feet and her wand is trained over Malfoy's heart. Hermione is on her feet now, too, her hands raised to Ginny. "No," she says before she can stop herself, "It's not-" but she bites off the end of the sentence. Not _what?_ Not what Ginny thinks? But Hermione has no proof of that, and she isn't sure that she believes it herself.

"Are you defending him?" Ginny chokes out. "After everything that he's _done?_"

"Ginny, relax. He hasn't done anything recently, and as far as we know-"

Malfoy is still seated, looking up at Ginny's wand and Hermione's hands with vague interest. His hand pauses at the left sleeve of Ron's shirt, which he is still wearing. He pulls the hem back, over his elbow and turns his arm up into the light.

"Hermione, he is a _death eater_! He-"

Even Ginny falls silent to gawk. The patch of skin on his left forearm, where the brand should be, is recessed skin, like some great beast had bitten off a chunk of skin and taken the dark mark with it. It is pale and shining and very clearly without a dark mark. Hermione glances up at Andromeda just in time to see the older witch school her face carefully into a neutral expression.

They stare at the scar for so long that Malfoy goes back to watching the wall.

"Thank you, at any rate," says Andromeda eventually, inclining her head towards Malfoy. "We would have lost some good people today if not for your help tonight. We would have been lost without the extra pair of helping hands. We are very grateful."

Ginny nods, sullenly, and still doesn't take her eyes off of the scar. They lapse back into silence. Ginny resumes picking the blood from under her nails and Hermione watches her.

There is a snap of apparition in the back yard and the bell above the back door chimes happily. Hermione is on her feet, her wand is in her hand, her chair is toppling backwards and she is moving towards the door just as Dawlish bursts into the room. "Granger, Malfoy's pulled a runner! You have to-"

"He's here, John," says Andromeda, lowering her own wand and raising a placating hand. She takes a step back toward the table. "He brought Ernie MacMillan to us when he was gravely injured and then he stayed and helped to tend the wounded all night. He has attacked no one and he has gone nowhere."

Dawlish falls silent and his eyes travel around the room, alighting first on Ginny, who is asleep facedown on the table, her wand still in her hand, to Malfoy, who is looking at Dawlish with detached interest, to Andromeda, standing between the door and the table, her wand held loosely at her side, and finally to Hermione, who gives Dawlish a smug look even as she forces her heart to slow and her shaking hands to still. She takes a step back toward the table and tries to adopt some of Malfoy's and Andromeda's nonchalance as she collapses back into her chair.

"And none of you thought to inform me of his location?" He growls eventually.

Andromeda shrugs. "We've been busy. It must have slipped our minds."

Dawlish glares between her and Hermione like he cannot believe how stupid they have been. "No one died, John," adds Andromeda, "and we have Malfoy to thank for that."

The young man in question does not register what he has heard. As far as Hermione can tell, he doesn't even know what is happening. She kicks him in the shin again, and he looks up at her, meeting her gaze steadily. His gray eyes are bright and alive. He recognizes her without insanity clouding his vision for the first time since she found him in the woods. Her mouth is suddenly dry. Her fingers wrap tighter around her wand.

"Right, well, he can't just stay here." Dawlish points his wand at Malfoy. "Stupefy!" he yells. There is a flash of red light and Malfoy falls forward, his face hitting the table with such a resounding smack that Ginny wakes with a startled yelp.

"Now, John," Andromeda looks disapprovingly at Malfoy's unconscious body. "I don't think that was really necessary, do you?"

Dawlish turns, spitting mad, to Andromeda, "This...this _thing_ has _murdered_ three people in cold blood since coming into custody! Three of _our people! _He could have killed you, too! He could have killed everyone in this bleeding house before you even realized it was happening! People like him- they don't think twice about killing people like you, Andromeda. People like _all of us_. Think about _that_ the next time you decide to set the prisoner down for a cuppa after a long day's work!" He grabs the fabric of Malfoy's shirt so harshly that Hermione can hear it tear, and then disapparates.

Nan rounds the corner. She is wearing a dressing gown and her mousy brown hair is pulled back in a thick braid. "What's going on?" she demands. "I heard shouting."

* * *

**Monday, December 22nd.**

She wakes up one morning, looks at the snow just starting to fall outside, and then it hits her like a bullet—

Christmas is in three days.

And she's only gotten gifts for two people. Neither of whom is even here to receive them.

She chokes down that thought and heads to the bathroom for a shower, since the water wakes her up even though they still don't have any soap. She scourgifies her hair before she steps into the hot water, because this is better than nothing, even though her hair is a dry and frizzy mess afterward. The water is almost too hot to stand and she lets out a long sigh as the muscles in her back loosen under the pounding water.

This is going to be the first Christmas where she isn't going to get anything from her parents.

Hermione has never thought of herself as a particularly material girl, but this knowledge stings. She bites her lip and if there are tears running down her face, the water washes them away fast enough that she can deny to herself that she is crying. Her parents don't remember her, and so of course they won't remember to get her a gift. She knew this was going to happen— she was and remains logical enough to reason out everything that erasing their memories would mean. She anticipated this, but that doesn't keep her emotional response in check. She sniffles loudly and gets water up her nose. She wants this war to be done. She wants everything to be just like it was before all of this happened. She misses her mom. She misses her friends.

She steps onto the tile floor of the bathroom she shares with Ginny and Ernie (since he's still here for treatment). She looks at her reflection in the mirror, and takes a long hard look at herself. She's lost weight, as evidenced by the sharp curves of her collarbone and the ridges of her ribs. Her eyes are sunken and her skin is the yellow of old parchment. She doesn't know herself as she is now. This is all uncharted territory. Taking a deep breath, she pinches her cheeks to return some color to them. She needs to eat something. She needs to sleep better.

It's wrong and she knows it, but Hermione thinks that if she just tries hard enough, this war won't change her. She doesn't want to be forged by something so terrible, so she won't let it happen. She promises this to herself, even though she doesn't know if it is a promise that she can even keep.

* * *

**Tuesday, December 23rd.**

"No, Hermione, absolutely not." Lupin shakes his head and pushes her request back towards her.

There is a form for everything now, she realizes. So she's done her homework. She's filled out the Request for Leave to the best of her ability, and she's copied it onto three different forms, just in case they needed duplicates. Therefore, she is a bit annoyed and nonplussed at Lupin's refusal to grant it. "Why not?"

"We're spread too thin as it is," he rubs a hand over his face. The full moon is approaching and so he looks even worse than usual. There are several days worth of stubble along the edge of his face. "And you're requesting a trip to Diagon Alley, which is arguably one of the worst places you could go, outside of St. Mungo's or the Ministry, of course."

"I'm perfectly capable of-"

"I _know_, Hermione. I know you can take care of yourself. That's why I need you here. At Andromeda's."

She folds her arms across her chest and lifts her chin. "They can get on without me for one day."

"It's not the one day I'm worried about. If it was just one day, I'd consider it, but it's almost suicidal to want to travel down Diagon Alley now, and I don't want to have to think about replacing you if you get injured, captured, or worse. No, Hermione," he says over her, even as she begins to defend her skills as a fighter. "My answer is final. Permission not granted."

"Fine," she says curtly. She doesn't want to seem rude, but she isn't too happy with this, either.

When Lupin leaves that evening, she does not see him off.

* * *

**Wednesday, December 24th.**

Ginny walks into their room and finds Hermione surrounded on all sides by belongings— paintings and a rolled up tent and a years' worth of bottled water and food and first aid kits and potion supplies and innumerable books all stacked and piled neatly around her.

Naturally, Ginny is trapped in the doorway. "What are you doing?" she asks. "Do I even want to know?"

"I'm looking for something," replies Hermione as she sticks her arm back into the bag, her tongue stuck between her teeth in concentration.

"Are those Ron's underpants?" Ginny asks with a laugh as Hermione pulls a cloth checkered item out of the bag.

"I think so," she holds the boxers out and looks at the tag, which has _Charlie Weasley_ sewn into it. "Yes. They are." She folds them neatly and stacks them with the rest of Ron's clothes. She tries not to think about where Ron might be right now.

Ginny cackles almost wickedly to herself and picks her way through the piles toward Hermione's bed, which she clambers onto with more grace than Hermione herself had demonstrated when setting up the piles. "What are you looking for?" she asks, looking curiously at the bag.

"Knitting supplies," Hermione grunts. She pulls out a hefty down jacket.

"Why don't you just try summoning them?" Ginny replies.

"I tried," Hermione doesn't even look up. "I think they're caught on something, and I don't want to break whatever that is."

"Here," Ginny rolls the sleeve of her jumper up and around her elbow. "Let me help."

They take turns digging their arms into the bag for the rest of the afternoon, laughing when they pull out something silly. Ginny grows quiet whenever they pull out something of Harry's— a threadbare jumper, a rumpled hogwarts tie, his old sneakoscope— and Hermione pretends not to notice. Instead, she fills the silence with idle chatter as best as she can, which isn't very good, but it is good enough, because Ginny smiles sincerely when she is amused by something Hermione says, and forces a smile even when she isn't.

* * *

**Friday, December 25th.**

Hermione transfigures a feather duster into an evergreen tree so big that it brushes the ceiling in the living room and she, Ginny, and Andromeda dress the tree with whatever they can transfigure or charm. Hermione adds golden tinsel and crystalline baubles. Ginny adds innumerable small golden bells and Ernie tries several charms that don't work. He lost his wand in the last battle and the replacement belongs to a different dead auror member, and it still isn't working properly for him. Olivander has been missing for months, presumed dead, and there isn't anyone else on this island who can make a wand remotely as well.

At noon, Hermione and Ginny set off for dinner at the Burrow. Ernie, Andromeda, Nan, and two aurors walk them out into the back yard, crunching through the still-falling snow and waving them off as they turn, each burdened with wrapped parcels, and disapparate.


	13. The Crucifixion of the Minister

**A/N: **Hey guys. I'm actually moving today! Yaaay!

This chapter is, of course, dedicated to the magnificent, brilliant Elantil, who is kind enough to beta all of these chapters and to whom I owe the timely publication of anything. Enjoy.

**Chapter 13: The Crucifixion of the Minister**

* * *

**Friday, December 25th**

The Weasley kitchen is alive with guests. Bill and Fleur are standing in the kitchen, talking animatedly with Molly and Arthur. In the living room, George and Angelina stand very close together while Angelina nods along with whatever Percy is saying. Charlie, who is standing besides Percy, is looking at where Remus, Tonks, and a witch Hermione doesn't know, are talking to a man in a garishly yellow and green sweater. It is only when he turns toward her does Hermione realize that it is Dawlish. He excuses himself and trundles over to where Hermione is standing by the fireplace.

"Happy Christmas, Granger," he says.

"Happy Christmas," she returns. "I didn't expect to see you here," she can't keep herself from saying.

He nods vaguely in agreement. "Addie and Sam are having a lie down. I just popped in to drop off some holiday cheer." He gestures with his glass to a table. There are three bottles of dark wine sitting on it.

Hermione raises her eyebrows. "It must have been difficult finding those," she says as lightly as she can. She doesn't come right out and say what she suspects — that there are stockpiles of goods reserved for Important People.

Dawlish just shrugs. "I've been making my own wine for years now. They get three bottles every Christmas. Well, I used to give Arthur a whole case, but times have changed." He gives her a look that says 'what can you do?'

Hermione, slightly ashamed of her own assumption, tries again. "Did Molly make you that sweater?"

Dawlish looks down, like he has forgotten what he is wearing. "Oh, no. This was from Addie- my wife- a few years back."

Tonks waves Dawlish back over and from the roundness of her stomach, Hermione realizes with a start that Tonks is pregnant.

Molly calls Hermione into the kitchen to help prepare for dinner.

Molly Weasley is all trembling hands and wet eyes. Ginny is on her other side, making conversation as though nothing is wrong — as though this isn't the first Christmas without Fred and Ron isn't missing. This is also the first Christmas that she is spending at the Borrow and, in the supremest of ironies, Harry and Ron aren't even here. She misses her parents and hopes bitterly that they are having a nice Christmas, just the two of them, without the daughter that they don't remember having.

The talk in the other room dies down and someone silences the radio. Hermione finishes cutting her pile of potatoes before she wanders over to loom above Molly and Ginny, looking curiously into the living room.

Gawain Robards' head is floating in the fireplace, and Dawlish and Lupin look angrily between each other. Almost as soon as Hermione enters, Robards' head disappears and action erupts in the little room.

When Hermione grabs the front of Ginny's jumper, the other girl finally tells Hermione what Robards said. "Kingsley's body has been found. They left him at the Ministry."

Then Hermione is pushing towards the fireplace. Bill has already disappeared into the roaring green flames and Fleur is close on his heels. Dawlish tries to push past her, too, but she grabs the crook of his arm. "I'm coming too," she says.

"Hermione, stay here," Lupin begins, but Hermione snarls, actually audibly snarls, in response. She is sick of being left behind. Her friends aren't here anymore. She is not a risk for Harry or Ron. There is no reason to stop her now, and she will not be stopped. Not by Lupin, not by anyone. An ornament falls off of the tree and shatters on the floor.

Dawlish raises his hand and said angrily, "No, Remus. She watched him get taken. She's earned this."

Lupin looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he just nods and disappears into the fire.

Dawlish offers her a handful of floo powder. "Stay close to me, girl," he growls next to her ear. "Just in case there's trouble."

* * *

**11:42 pm**

Hermione is sitting at Andromeda's impeccably cleaned table. There is a glass of firewhiskey between her hands and she is staring at the dark liquid as though it is trying to tell her something. Mallory is sitting across from her. Without any warning, Mallory slams her fist so hard into the table that the glasses tremble and Hermione jumps in her seat.

"I should kick his ass for taking you there," she snarls.

Hermione notes the remarkable facial similarities between Mallory and her younger sister.

Hermione takes a deep breath and shakes her head. "I'm glad I was there." And she means it, although she isn't sure why.

Mallory, far from being mollified, seethes. "No, you're too young for that. There was nothing for you to do, no logical reason for you to be there."

"I was able to help identify cause of death, Mallory," Hermione replies quietly. "And it was good to be useful."

"Yeah, good on you for I.D.-ing the curse, but they would have gotten it eventually. A miracle you weren't sick when you saw him. No one should see something like that. Kingsley wouldn't have wanted it."

Hermione doesn't mention that she was, in fact, in the very closet where she and Malfoy hid as the werewolves dragged Kingsley away. She doesn't talk about the body, suspended upside down and splayed like an eagle, lashed to the hour and minute hands of the clock above the elevators. She doesn't tell Mallory about the minister's exposed, faintly beating heart, attached by ligaments and veins to the exposed ribs or how his exposed larynx rasped around the word "a death eater" before he was finally granted the release of death. Hermione will always wonder how long Kingsley was trapped there, suspended between life and death, turned inside out in front of his own office, before the patrol wizard found him. Hermione stares into her glass of amber liquor and doesn't say anything at all.

"Well, drink up," Mallory tops off Hermione's glass. "I'm only sharing this with you and I don't want to have to explain where I got it to the others."

Hermione smiles gratefully and takes a sip. It burns all the way down her throat and sits like warmth in her belly.

"Oh, Ginny's spending the night with her family. Sorry. She sent an owl hours ago. You've got a few gifts." The tree they put up still stands in the corner, but Hermione feels like it was a century ago that they decorated it. There are four parcels under the tree.

"I'll open them tomorrow." She says with a shrug.

Mallory nods. "Understandable. By the way, the one in the gold paper is from me," she gestures toward a small gold box. "So you know who to thank when you unwrap your favorite new thing."

Hermione can't help but laugh at that.

Mallory smiles back at her. "Now then. Let's participate in the age-old Hogwarts custom of getting shit-faced on Christmas." She tops off both glasses.

"I spent Christmas at Hogwarts several times and we never got shit-faced. Not once."

Mallory just rolls her eyes. "The more I learn about you Gryffindors, the happier I am to have been a Slytherin. Even the Hufflepuffs had more fun than you lot."

Hermione wrinkles her nose. "There is no house I would have rather-"

"TO HUFFLEPUFFS!" Mallory cuts in, raising her glass.

Hermione, who knows a diversion when it's tossed her way, replies. "This conversation isn't over. Through all of history, no house has produced as many-"

"Yes, yes, long live the gold and red. I have heard it all before. Now, are you going to join me in praising the ancient and most noble house of puff or are you going to leave me hanging?"

Hermione sighs deeply, but raises her glass to clink softly against Mallory's. "To Hufflepuff."

* * *

Hermione dreams that night of a faceless monster with long-fingered hands peeling meat off of Kingsley's body in long thin strips. Its face splits into a wide gash of a mouth and it tilts its head back to lower the strips of meat in one by one.

* * *

**Saturday, December 26th. Morning.**

When she wakes up, Hermione rolls onto her side and vomits off the edge of the bed until the muscles of her stomach clench but nothing else comes out.

Hermione stumbles down to the kitchen eventually in search of tea. There is a note waiting for her on the table: "Hermione — open your present!"

So she does, after pouring herself an enormous mug of dark tea. She starts with Mallory's gift in its small gold-wrapped box. The sound of the paper makes her head pound, but she works through the pain. And she is very glad that she does. Inside the package is a pocket-sized case with the words "Brews for Busy Witches." It contains a small bottle of pepper-up, a small bottle of Sleekeazy's and a small bottle of contraceptive potion. This last one makes Hermione blush even though the only set of eyes watching her belong to Crookshanks, who is currently engaged in assiduously cleaning his front left paw. It isn't enough pepper-up to really make her day, but it is enough to fight off the monster of a hangover that is brewing behind her eyes, so she downs it in one gulp.

There is a sweater from Mrs. Weasley. It is red and emblazoned with a giant golden cat and Hermione pulls it on over her pajamas at once. It feels like home. She smiles to herself. Ginny has given her a tin of cookies.

There is more one parcel. Upon closer inspection, Hermione realizes that it is a pillowcase that has been sewn shut. She does not know who it is from. A quick diffindo has it open and she dumps the contents onto the floor. It is a necklace, or at least, it appears to be one — a thin silver chain with an eight-point diamond star at its center. It's pretty, she supposes, but the charm is too large and gaudy for her taste and, more importantly, no one she knows would ever think to give her jewelry.

Using the pillowcase, she scoops the necklace up and knots the sack tightly, tapping it with her wand and murmuring a quick spell to ensure that no one unsuspecting will open it by accident. She'll need to look at it more closely, to test it for dark magic, but she doesn't know how much time she'll have before the aurors or Ginny return, and she doesn't want a potential dark object just loose where it could hurt anyone. No, it will be best to deal with whatever this is in secret.

* * *

**Sunday, December 27th**

She makes a delivery run to the burrow and when she enters, the people sitting around the table fall instantly silent, although they don't look happy. Two of them she knows, one she doesn't. She stomps the snow off of her boots onto the mat by the back door and looks over the small group.

"Hello, George. Ginny," she says, and she smiles at them.

George stares stonily back at her and Ginny attempts a small wave. The man whom she doesn't recognize folds his arms across his chest and grunts out, "speak of the devil, hey?"

George glares at him across the scrubbed table and Hermione can see that his knuckles are white around his wand.

"Shove off, Liam," Ginny hisses.

"What is it?" Hermione asks lightly, even though there is a rage boiling inside of her. She doesn't know what she's done to make this fellow so angry at her, but it doesn't really matter. She's been cooped up for much too long to deal with this nonsense on her first trip out since Kingsley was... "Is there a problem?" She raises her nose into the air, cocks an eyebrow.

"No problem at all, Hermione," George says through thin lips. "Liam here was just trying to tell us a stupid-"

"Isn't stupid!" Liam barks back, tossing his dark hair out of his face. He points a thick finger at Hermione, "How'd she escape from all those death eaters, hey? She was at the ministry when they took Kingsley. Did anyone ever figure out _why_ she was there, Weasley? 'Cause from where I'm sitting, it's easy to see who the spy-"

_BANG!_ Liam is thrown backwards across the room and into the cabinet, which collapses under his weight, raining dishes and broken glass down around his head.

George, Ginny and Hermione all have their wands in their hands and pointed directly at him. When he doesn't move, George straightens first and lets out a short laugh. It isn't a laugh Hermione knows or would ever identify as his. It is a joke without a punchline. It is a gasp without a sneeze. It sounds incomplete and all three of them know it, but none of them say it. Instead, George turns to Ginny and says, "what was that you hit him with?" He stows his wand in its holster on his wrist.

"Me?" Ginny looks confused and shakes her head. "I thought it was-"

Molly descends upon the kitchen with the fury of an old goddess. "Not inside my house," she hisses and there is so much venom in it that all three of the Gryffindors take a step away from her.

Her eyes slide over Hermione, and the bag she is still holding. "Give that to me, Hermione, dear, so glad to see you. You'll stay for dinner, won't you?" She gives Hermione a tight smile and then is all anger again, commands, "and you two —clean up this mess."

When Molly turns to leave, though, Hermione catches a smile on her face.

"That's the first he's laughed since Fred," Ginny tells her later, when it is just the two of them in Ginny's room while Molly gets dinner ready.

* * *

There is an owl waiting for her when she gets back to Andromeda's that evening. She unties the letter from the owl's legs and sends it on its way.

"Granger,

Malfoy demands an audience before he will give us any more information. I'll pick you up tomorrow at 9. We'll head to the funeral after.

Dawlish"

* * *

**Monday, December 28th**

Dawlish is already in the kitchen, waiting for Hermione at 8:37 when she enters the kitchen. He looks like he hasn't slept or showered since Hermione saw him on Christmas, and as soon as she is in the room he stands up and unwraps a seashell.

"What is it today, Dawlish?" Mallory asks, pointing at the shell with her cereal spoon.

"There was a time when you called me 'sir,' you know," he grumbles.

"Times have changed, Dawlish," Mallory crunches down on a heaping spoonful of cereal. "I'm a grown-up now. I've got a wand and a badge and everything."

Danish grumbles something about taking that badge away.

"Would you rather I called you John, then, John?"

Danish prods the shell with his wand and mutters the activation spell. "Granger, are you ready to go?" The vein at his temple is throbbing again.

"Johnny, then?" Mallory asks innocently.

Hermione fights down a smile and reaches forward. "It's a conch, today, right?"

Danish looks surprised for half a second and then nods.

"What was that, JJ?" Mallory asks from the table.

"A con- oh never mind. On three, Granger. One, two, three."

* * *

They land in snow so deep that Hermione can feel it leaking into her boots and soaking her socks. Even more is falling in thick white flakes from a uniformly gray sky. All they can see is snow in every direction, bordered on either side by slipping hills. At the peak of the hill nearer to where they are standing, is a house that sits like a black thumbprint against all the white snow and endless gray sky. It looks like a scene out of a black-and-white muggle movie, and it is God-damned cold. She casts a warming charm around herself before she follows after Dawlish, trudging towards the small gray cottage on the horizon.

They enter through the kitchen, stomping snow onto the scuffed wood floor. Dawlish closes the door behind them and, wand drawn, checks the corners of the room before he moves out of the doorway and let Hermione properly in.

The room is larger than most kitchens in cottages like these, and although the shelves above the sink are bare, they look like they once held innumerable objects of great monetary worth. The majority of the room is dominated by a massive brick fireplace that stretches from floor to ceiling and one wall to another.

This place, Hermione realizes, is much larger than it has been charmed to appear. She wonders how many rooms there are beyond this one. Almost as an afterthought, there is a card table shoved into a corner that may have once been where a servant slept. There is a man sitting at the table who has dark eyes and a fur-lined cloak around his broad shoulders. His hair is ink black and curls gently around his ears. His wand is held loosely in his left hand, pointed casually at them. He looks bored, but Hermione doesn't think that he is.

"Ivan," Dawlish greets. He doesn't put his wand down, either.

"You are early," Ivan's voice rumbles like an avalanche and his accent has the same roughness that Viktor's does, but a bit sharper. Not Bulgarian, but close.

Dawlish shrugs. "Is that going to be a problem for you?"

Without taking his eyes from Dawlish's face, Ivan reaches backward and bangs twice on a stretch of wall that melts away to reveal a door. Ivan speaks something in what Hermione believes must be Russian. She can make out the word 'Malfoy' but nothing else. She makes a mental note to learn some Russian in her free time.

Hermione had read about the old wizarding castles of Eastern Europe — hidden to seem like nothing interesting even from the inside. Wizards and witches have been said to have escaped wars, espionage and even death in strongholds like this one. Naturally, she wants to explore every inch of it. There isn't a chance for a tour, as at that moment the door opens and Malfoy walks through.

His eyes are on hers and his stare is so intense that she feels as though all of the air has been sucked out of the room. His hair is longer now. It lays flat against his skull, as shockingly blond as it has always been. His face is less gaunt than it was before and there are no visible signs of damage on his skin, but still he does not look away from her. He is watching her the way a cat watches an insect through a pane of glass. He looks hungry.

Dawlish steps in front of her, breaking the eye contact. "She's here, Malfoy," he snarls at the younger wizard.

At his leisure, Malfoy says something in Russian to Ivan, who rises from his seat and says to Dawlish, "come, I will give you tour."

Dawlish turns to Hermione, and his face is pinched and he shoves something roughly into Hermione's hand. It is something wrapped in cloth and it feels like it is roughly the shape and weight of a seashell. It's a portkey. "If he tries anything, get yourself out of here," he whispers, and then turns, straightens, and follows Ivan through the wooden door. It shuts behind them, and melts back into stone.

And she is alone in the room with Draco Malfoy, who is not chained to anything or restrained in any way. Something must have happened in the last few months to allow Malfoy to have liberties like this. She hasn't seen him unrestrained since before the war started. Since before he murdered Dumbledore. She clutches the wrapped shell tightly in one hand, and her wand in the other.

Malfoy either doesn't notice this or, more likely, doesn't care. Instead, he walks around the card table and pulls a chair out, gesturing to it with one hand. "I was raised with manners. Please, have a seat," he says silkily, as imperious as any host.

Hermione gapes at him for a moment and eventually says, "I'll stand, thanks."

He cocks his head to one side as if he is puzzled by her refusal, but he does not press the subject. He leaves her chair pulled slightly from the table, as if in invitation, and goes around to the other side of the table. He pulls a chair out again. For a crazy second, Hermione thinks that he is pulling out another chair for her, waiting for her to sit down again, but then the wood of the chair creaks as if under a great pressure, and in less than a heartbeat, it explodes into millions of splinters of wood as if blown apart from the inside.

His eyes glaze over when the chair explodes, like he is suddenly somewhere else again. She knows that look, has seen it on his face before, and she knows that if he remains like this for long, she won't learn anything new. So she clears her throat and says, "what do you want, Malfoy?"

After an instant, he gives his head a little shake and looks back at her. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches into the pocket of his robes and pulls out a great black spider, its body is as large as Malfoy's whole hands and its eight wriggling legs as thick as Hermione's wand. It crawls up Malfoy's forearm for a moment, and he stares, transfixed by its motion. Tenderly, almost lovingly, he lowers it onto the card table. It explores the surface for a few moments before it freezes, its front legs poised above its body. Even from half the room away, Hermione can see a clear viscous liquid gleaming on its jaws.

"It's scared," she points out, and although it is staring at a seemingly empty corner, she thinks she knows what it is afraid of. Even invertebrates don't deserve this, although she doesn't know what to do to stop it.

"It's quite poisonous. Don't touch it. Don't watch, either." Malfoy replies, and he walks around the table, toward her, keeping his back to the corner.

She takes a step backwards to better keep some distance between herself and Malfoy, although it isn't fear that drives the action. She does not think that he will harm her, although she does not know why this would be the case.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" She asks, because she is sick of having more questions than answers.

"You are in need of rescuing, Granger," he says. His eyes are gray like the sky outside. Gray like tombstones. Gray like death.

"I'm not, Malfoy," she replies slowly. He is mad and she knows it. He is mad and so his words are riddles that don't have answers.

"Your friend is hungry, Mudblood," he says next, like he is talking about the weather. His eyes snap to the window behind her, and snap to the ceiling, and snap to the top of her head.

She bristles at the word. "Don't call me that, Malfoy," she snarls. Rage bubbles just under the surface of her skin these days. She is always angry and it is an anger born of doing nothing for much too long. She itches to act, and if this is the only way that she can fight this war, then this is what she will do. There is a slight popping sound in the corner, but she is too angry to look over. "I won't tell you again."

He smiles, though, like she just said something funny. "But it is what you are, Granger," he says, "it is as much your name as any other." He is watching her wand, which is still trained on his heart. He looks eager. Like he is waiting for her to hurt him.

He is provoking her. She wants to lash out and he wants it, too. Realizing that this is what he wants, she lowers her wand, although her hand is shaking with ill-suppressed rage. "I don't answer to Mudblood, Malfoy," and then something else occurs to her, "you are acting very rude. Don't they teach pureblood brats like you how to host a guest? Where are your manners?"

Something slides in and out of focus on his face, and he sneers like the boy she used to know, like he is the same Malfoy that he used to be — arrogant pureblood brat — but then the expression drops away and his face is blank again. He turns and walks toward the table, pulls out the chair again, gestures to it with one hand again. "I was raised with manners. Please, have a seat."

She sighs heavily and resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll stand, thanks." She says again. Something moves in the corner behind the table, and Hermione looks away, locks her eyes on Malfoy's face.

"You are in need of rescuing, Granger," he says again.

She wants to scream at him that he already said that and he is still as wrong now as he was before. Instead, she grips her wand a little tighter at her side and grinds out, "how so?"

"Your friend is hungry," he replies, and he smiles. "The minister was not enough. There must be death."

"What is it, Malfoy?" She asks, because she has been able to find nothing on her own, no new information in any book.

His smile widens even further. His eyes are glassy now. "A friend. And he is hungry."

"So it's male?" She counters. A gendered monster is an interesting concept, as it attributes a biological concept to something that otherwise seems unnatural.

He cocks his head to one side. "You are in need of rescuing, Granger," he says for the third time.

She actually does roll her eyes at this. "And are you planning on saving me, Malfoy?" She can't help barking out a harsh laugh at the thought.

The smile drops from his face like a switch has flipped. He looks her up and down once, from head to toe, and then he turns away from her, gesturing grandly toward the table.

The spider is not on the table anymore. It is pinned with a sliver of wood to the wall, upside down. Its legs are splayed and detached from its body, each pinned with a thin sliver of wood to the wall. There is a splatter of shining blue liquid around its body, like a Rorschach test. Its thorax is sliced open and she can see small organs twitching in the exposed cavity. It looks, she realizes, just like Kingsley's body. A morbid tribute to the crucifixion of the leader of the free wizarding world. Suddenly she can't look at it anymore, and so she looks at Malfoy, instead. He is looking at her, like he can read the lines of her thoughts on her face.

"Yes," he replies.


	14. Someone had Blundered

**Chapter 14: Someone Had Blundered**

**TW: Gore - let me know if you want an abridged version of the chapter that excludes the grosser bits!**

**A/N:** Title taken from Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Charge of the Light Brigade." Again, sorry about the delay, guys. I've officially relocated to Austin, Texas! I'm not there right now, but I think we just got internet, so the next update will probably come from the comfort of my own apartment! Reviews make me float!

* * *

**Monday, December 28th, continued**

"Yes."

Hermione just stares at him for a long time, willing there to be a punchline, but one doesn't come. She considers the blond man standing before her. He is taller than he seemed in school — definitely taller than Harry but probably shorter than Ron, assuming Ron stood up straight. He is wearing black auror robes that are too tight around his shoulders and too loose around his middle. There is a hole in the toe of his right boot. He is watching her with a blank expression on his face. She doesn't know what he is thinking.

Her eyes flick back to the twitching organs of the impaled spider. There is a dying spider pointed and wriggling against the wall where it had been poised to fight on the table moments before. The shards of wood from the chair still litter the floor. Draco Malfoy has just announced to her that he is going to save her.

Despite what etiquette dictates here, she laughs harshly and raises her wand at the spider.

Draco steps in front of her wand though, and he looks furious, angrier than she has seen him look before now. "Don't do that," he seethes.

Hermione rolls her eyes again because now _MALFOY_ is telling her what to do? No. Absolutely not. She will take orders from Lupin, she will take orders from Dawlish, but she will _never_ take orders from an ex-death eater, crazy man."Get out of the way," she snarls, and her wand stays true. "I'm not going to let it suffer."

"Watch," he hisses in return. "Watch your friend." He takes a step towards her so that her wand is only inches from his chest, but she can see over his shoulder now.

She looks behind him to the spider. Its thorax expands and contracts, expands and contracts. She watches, fascinated by the slow and painful operation of the act of living for long moments until her eyes slide out of focus.

And that is when she sees it.

It is not so much a shadowy figure as it is a distortion of the light against the wall beside the spider. Like a heat ripple above hot pavement in the summer, only more contained, given shape. And what a shape it is. It stretches from floor to ceiling, as wide as the card table, but vaguely humanoid. She can make out a round head and the place where the arms fork from the body. It raises one arm towards the spider and pulls something out of the spider, something long and thin and as formless as the monster itself.

She draws a breath in through her nose, expels it out through her mouth, and she blinks. The monster is gone, but the spider on the wall is no longer twitching. It is completely still; all the pumping struggling organs have stilled in death.

"What is it?"

"A friend, if you feed it," replies Malfoy.

"It killed Kingsley," she replies.

Malfoy dips his head in a noncommittal way. "Killed, yes. But the walls speak, Granger, and they say that it was not your friend who left the muggle lover to be found. Your friend is very hungry, but it will not leave your side."

"What does it eat?"

His eyes slide to the window behind where she is standing and he smiles. "That which you refuse to give it. But it doesn't want to be discussed." He nods toward the window and, sure enough, a thin crack is forming in the glass and as she watches, it spreads just a fraction of an inch further toward the sill.

She shudders. The monster is unhappy with how much they are saying. She will drop this topic, but there is still more she wants to know. "So what are you protecting me from, Malfoy?"

"The wolves at your door, Granger. Your friends and mine."

She sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. She understands what he means — her 'dark friend' and the Death Eaters. "How are you going to do that, Malfoy?" She asks. "And why should I trust you?" She adds, because maybe he knows something else that she doesn't.

Before he can answer, the door opens. Dawlish's face is pointedly blank when he looks around the room, but his wand is clenched in a white-knuckled fist at his side and the tell-tale vein in his neck is pounding again. Ivan looks like he's fighting off a smile.

"Ready, Granger?" Dawlish asks.

Asking for more time would seem more suspicious than not saying anything at all, so she just shrugs and nods.

"Good," he says. He turns to the dark-haired man, "Ivan."

"Dawlish," is the reply.

And then Dawlish is ushering her out of the room and after they trudge a dozen paces through the deep snow. He holds out his hand for the portkey he gave Hermione. Wordlessly, she puts it in his outstretched hand and puts two fingers on top of the cloth covering it. He pinches an edge of the cloth between his fingers.

"On three, Granger," he says when she is ready. "One, two, three."

* * *

When they reappear in Andromeda's back yard, it is snowing gently, as if the weather had portkey-ed with them.

"I'll go get a vial for the memory," she says and dashes back into the house ahead of Dawlish.

She pulls the memory from her mind, copies it, and stores her copy of the memory in the pillbox with Malfoy's teeth. It clinks against the other little vial of memory she has stored for whenever she next has access to a pensieve. Perhaps she'll see if someone else has one that she can use, but in the meantime, she will wait, even though curiosity is a dog nipping at her ankles.

She takes one more long look at the little blue vials before placing them back into her beaded bag and running the memory down to Dawlish.

* * *

**Saturday, January 2nd**

Hermione and Ginny spend the whole afternoon dueling in the yard behind Andromeda's house. This is the third in what will become a long string of daily practices. It was Mallory's idea at first, which she brought to Hermione's attention the same day that Hermione returned from her visit with Malfoy.

"Dawlish mentioned training some of you Hogwarts lot for real battles," she said casually over a midnight cup of tea. Like she was talking about the weather. Like it wasn't important at all. "You may want to practice a bit more, and let him catch you practicing, if you want to see some action."

It wasn't hard to convince Ginny, who will come of age in less than a year, to practice dueling with her. Hermione wants to think that, by the time Ginny is given the option to fight, the war will be over, but Ginny can only think about everyone who is fighting her war already. She isn't like Hermione — she has no patience for healing and no brain for potions. She wants to be fighting, or at least to be allowed to go _somewhere _besides Andromeda's and the Burrow. And so Hermione has no trouble at all enlisting her as a training partner.

They throw curses back and forth for a few hours in the snow. They start small; disarming spells and shield charms, but each session heats up faster and each time their spells get more advanced. Hermione learns quicker than Ginny does, and so sometimes she gets frustrated with re-teaching the basics two or three times. She takes care not to let on how she feels, though; Ginny doesn't need criticism on top of everything else.

They stomp the snow off their boots on the front step and take their coats off as they enter the house through the kitchen. Beneath her winter cloak, Hermione is sweating from today's effort. There are voices from the next room, and Hermione and Ginny follow the sounds.

Mallory, Justin, Ernie, and Lavender are all seated on various articles of furniture in the living room. When the tired witches enter, Ernie raises a half-empty bottle of Ogden's at them in greeting. His face is a splotchy red and Justin smiles vacantly up at them.

"Hi hi!" Lavender says exuberantly. "Ginny, come sit by me!"

"Hey, all," Ginny says slowly as she sinks down into the love seat down to Lavender. "What's going on?" She pulls Hermione down on her other side, and now the three of them are squashed together on a couch that generally only seats two comfortably.

"We're playing a drinking game," says Mallory, who is flopped sideways across the chair that Andromeda usually inhabits when she has a minute to put her feet up. "Only they," she continues and points around at the others, "are losing rather badly." She narrows her eyes at them in mock seriousness. She is wearing a dark plum colored lipstick today and her eyes are blacked in harsh wing tips the way Hermione imagined Cleopatra would wear eyeliner. Hermione wonders if, someday, she can ask Mallory for a makeup lesson.

Lavender wraps her arms around Ginny's waist and pulls her close, snagging Hermione's jumper in the process. "She isn't playing by the rules," she whines against Ginny's neck. Ginny grimaces and leans away from Lavender's mouth.

"Hear hear!" Ernie cheers with the bottle, the amber liquid sloshing merrily as he waves it back and forth.

"Your breath is foul, Lav!" Ginny complains as she pushes the the very inebriated Lavender off of her. Her nose is scrunched and she gives Hermione a pained look.

Mallory snorts in a very un-Cleopatra-like fashion. "Oh please. I am most certainly playing by the rules. The rules are whenever you mess up, you drink. I know what they get up to in the Gryffindor common room. You can't try to tell me that you suddenly, magically, can't hold your booze."

"We were in Huff'puff," Justin slurs, the vacant smile still on his face.

Mallory shrugs and holds her hand out for the bottle. "Well, that's an excuse for you, I guess, Justin."

"I was a noble badger myself," Ernie adds, holding the bottle out to the auror.

Mallory accepts the bottle, looks beadily at him, and says dryly. "Yeah, well, no surprises there."

"And what's that-"

"But you were Gryffindors, yeah? All three of you?" She looks between them and then bats a hand at them. "I can answer that for myself. All of you snuggled up on the couch like that, you couldn't be anything else. No regard for personal space, Gryffindors." She takes a drink. "But you know, that's not all they say about you lot." She grins slyly at them, looking for the first time like the Slytherin they've known all along that she was.

"Ginny," Lavender whines. "I miss my Won-won."

This catches Hermione's attention. 'Won-won'? She was under the impression that this particular nominal nickname went extinct in sixth year after Ron woke up and saw how obnoxious 'Lav-lav' could be. She raises her eyebrows at Ginny, who only shrugs in response.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Ginny bristles at Mallory's comment, trying yet again to push Lavender's face out of her neck.

"Of course everyone knows that!" Booms Ernie over Ginny, although no one seems to know quite what he's talking about. Then he flops back against his high-backed leather chair, looking pleased.

Mallory gives him an appraising look. "I'm cutting you off, MacMillan. Go get yourself some water, and take Brown with you."

Hermione thinks that they aren't going to listen to her, but then Ernie lifts himself from the chair with a groan and holds a hand out for Lavender to take. "Come on, Brown. Let's get you something to drink, hey?"

"No," Lavender giggles. "Ginny, come with me."

"No," Ginny replies curtly. "I just got in and I want to know what she meant with that dig at Gryffindor," Ginny pulls her wrist out of Lavender's grasp and glares across at Mallory.

"It wasn't a dig, Ginny," Mallory gives her a small smile and a sigh. "I was just poking fun. Please go with Lavender. I don't want her to be sick in the morning."

"That's what hangover potions are for."

"Ginny," Hermione says quietly. "You do know that we haven't had any powdered nettle for months, right?"

Ginny huffs again, pretending that she didn't hear Hermione at all, but she lets Lavender drag her to her feet, anyway.

As soon as the door between the kitchen and the living room closes, Hermione looks at Mallory. "Did you want to talk to me in private?" She asks.

Mallory raises an eyebrow. Hermione wonders if this is something that all Slytherins must know before they enter that house, or if they learn it later — like a secret handshake. "And what would give you that idea?"

Hermione glances at the doorway. "You knew that Lavender would make Ginny go with her and it was a good way to get the three of them out of the room."

"But we aren't alone, are we?" Mallory's eyes are hooded, and her smile is lazy. Like a snake's. "Justin's still here."

"Justin," Hermione says to him.

He smiles vacantly at the carpet. "Yeah?" he answers. His hair is tinted orange in the firelight and hangs in loose curls around his face.

"Where did Lavender and Ernie just go?"

"Sorry, what?" Justin looks up at her, his head waving slightly from side to side. "Where did who go?"

Hermione gives Mallory a look.

Mallory smiles more fully at Hermione now. "You really should have been in my house. You're much too clever for a Gryffindor."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "I sincerely doubt that you got everyone drunk just so you could try to recruit me for Slytherin."

Mallory glances once to the door and then leans back in her seat, regarding Hermione seriously. She doesn't look drunk at all now. Hermione wonders if she was faking it the whole time. "I want to know how you're doing."

"I'm fine," Hermione replies automatically, taken off guard by the question.

"Don't feed me that, Hermione. You're always up all night, you hardly sleep, you hardly eat, and any time someone mentions those friends of yours, you just look depressed. See? Even now, you're like a fucking wilting flower."

"I'm fine, Mallory," Hermione says, making a serious effort to keep her posture good. "I'm just tired. You're right that I haven't been sleeping well, but that's all that's wrong with me. Really." She doesn't mention the nightmares, doesn't mention the cold weight of fear that sits like an animal on her chest whenever she tries to sleep. She tries not to think about it.

Mallory folds her arms over her chest. She doesn't look angry, but then again, she never does. "Yeah, well, that's the magic of lies, I guess, isn't it."

Maybe she is drunk after all. "I don't follow."

"Even when you know someone is lying to you, that doesn't mean that you know what the truth is."

Before Hermione can answer this statement, Mallory speaks again. "Where does Dawlish take you when the two of you disappear?"

"What?" Again, Hermione is caught off-guard. She scrambles to think of a good excuse. She can, theoretically, tell anyone she wants to about Malfoy, but she isn't sure she wants to. Somehow, it feels like a secret, like something bad will happen if she tells anyone where she was.

"I was figuring that you were doing curse-breaking of some sort, or inventing something." She shakes her head, takes a long sip from the bottle. "But you never look happy when you come back and Dawlish won't tell me where you get off to. Is it Malfoy?"

"What makes you say that?" Hermione replies, stalling for time.

Mallory shrugs again. "I went with you to Azkaban, remember? I thought Dawlish had put a stop to that, what with Malfoy acting as the new Niffler."

"What is a niffler, anyway?" Hermione asks, hoping to deflect the original question.

"It's pretty bad," Mallory confesses, and she isn't looking at Hermione anymore. "They're generally an ex-Death Eater. They lead the rest of us into the safe houses or hideouts in spats. They always go in first, so that if it's a setup, they take the first round of spells all on their own."

"Well that's barbaric," Hermione cannot keep the disgust out of her voice.

"It gets the job done," Mallory replies. "And it keeps more of our own from dying. What's one less death eater in the world?"

Mallory's words hang in the air and it is as though a gulf has opened up between them. _This is the difference_, Hermione thinks to herself, but she does not think that it is prudent to open her mouth, lest all of her disgust and anger spill out all over the floor.

After a few moments, Mallory seems to understand Hermione's reaction on her own, nods, and continues. "I don't expect you to tell me if Dawlish has you meeting up with Malfoy or not — but he's dangerous, Hermione. He isn't like the others. Most nifflers last a week or two at most, but he's been around for months now. _Months!_ Our Russian allies, if they're going to be in a spat with us, they don't let him go in ahead anymore. Think it's bad luck or some such rubbish. Some of the aurors, too. They're starting to think of him as one of us, even though he is kind of batshit. I think they feel bad for him. I don't buy it, though. I've only seen him once in a fight and," she shakes her head vehemently. "He knew who he was going after, and he doesn't need a wand."

"They're still not giving him a wand? Even in _spats_?" Hermione cannot keep her voice even when she says this.

Mallory seems to learn all she needs to know from this interjection. "He doesn't need a wand to kill people, Hermione. All he needs is ten seconds and an opening. Never give him that."

The clock on the wall chimes seven times and Lavender squeals in the kitchen.

"I've put a word in for you with Dawlish. About the fighting. Said I'd seen you practicing and all that rubbish. Don't think he bought it, though. Talked in circles for a bit about how useful you were with potions and sideline spells. Maybe he'll take you in as a field healer, though. We'll see soon enough. There's something big coming. Kingsley was an Auror before he was minister, and so a lot of us want revenge for that, that," Mallory's face twists into a look of disgust that Hermione has never seen there before. "We'll make them pay." She eventually says. Hermione can feel the small hairs rise on the back of her neck.

* * *

**Sunday, January 3rd**

The next morning, Hermione enters the kitchen to find Justin Finch-Fletchley already there. His head is supported by his fists, dangling over a steaming mug of coffee that he hasn't touched yet. If he notices her come in, make a cup of tea, and sit down, he doesn't show it. Hermione takes this opportunity to observe him for herself.

He is a fair-skinned boy with wet brown eyes and blonde hair that curls loosely around his head in a halo. He needs a haircut. In school, he always kept it short, but since all of this started, he's let it go a bit. There is a dusting of freckles across his nose and his cheeks are perpetually pink. He reminds her of Michelangelo's depiction of cherubs, only older.

"I kissed Lavender last night," he says without any sort of preamble and Hermione jumps at his sudden confession.

"Oh," she answers, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. She isn't used to hearing about this sort of thing and she is embarrassed that he caught her staring. "Well, that's nice."

"No," he runs his hands over his face and looks up at her. He looks exhausted. "It isn't. I don't like Lavender like that and I feel like I'm going to vomit."

"Oh," Hermione repeats because she isn't sure if the idea of kissing Lavender makes him want to vomit or if he really is just that hungover.

"I mean, even if I did have feelings for her, I couldn't do that to Ron."

"To Ron?" Her eyebrows draw towards one another. He places his hands on the table and looks at her under his fringe. _God,_ she thinks to herself, _he really does need a haircut._

"I thought they were together again, weren't they? I thought, the night before Harry and Ron left, he and Lavender they, well, you know. They, er, and I know Lavender didn't know for certain if Ron felt the same way about her, but then he kissed her and the kiss led to other things and I think they were going to talk about it some after he and Harry came back."

Hermione can feel her cheeks heating up. She has no idea that Ron still had feelings for Lavender. She isn't jealous, not really. She hasn't had feelings for Ron for months now, and this isn't such a surprise. Lavender, as annoying and simpering as she is, is brave and a good fighter. In that way, she and Ron are good for each other. She isn't even really upset that Ron hadn't told her about his renewed interest in the other girl, because Hermione understands how strange the last few months have been between them. He could even have meant to tell her, but the opportunity never presented itself because the night before Harry and Ron left for the last time, she was either fighting death eaters, or transporting Malfoy to the ministry. That in itself is a strange thought, because it means that Ron was doing 'well, you know' and 'other things' while she was listening to Kingsley getting captured by Greyback and his goons. It is a very surreal thing to think of.

"Oh, bloody hell," Justin bangs his head on the table so hard that the dregs of the tea in her cup ripple. "And I wasn't supposed to tell anyone about that either!"

Hermione chews on the inside of her cheek to keep herself from smiling. She pats the top of his head gently. "I won't tell anyone, Justin. Your secret's safe with me."

"Will they ever forgive me?" He asks without lifting his head.

"Who, Ron and Lavender?"

"Yeah," he groans.

She cannot suppress her chuckle this time. "I'm sure they'll get over it, Justin." She thinks for a moment. "If you're really worried about it, just apologize. Lavender might hold a grudge for a bit, but Ron won't."

"What will he do?"

"Well," Hermione tilts her head to one side while she thinks. It is snowing again and fat flakes are falling by the window outside. "Knowing Ron, he'll either laugh it off or punch you in the face and call it even."

Justin gives her a horrified look.

"He'll probably just laugh it off," she corrects quickly. "He only punches his brothers for the most part, and only when they're being real prats."

* * *

**Monday, January 4th**

Dawlish is sitting across the table from her as she eats a bowl of cereal. She lifts the spoon to her mouth and bites down around it. Dawlish stares. She chews. Dawlish stares. She swallows.

"Good morning, Dawlish," she says when she can feel her temper start to rise.

"He's obsessed with you, Granger."

"I'm going to assume you're talking about Malfoy. What makes you say that?"

Dawlish exhales heavily and leans back in his chair. "Says he won't work with us if he doesn't get to stay in the same safehouse as you."

Her spoon is frozen in the air midway to her mouth. "He actually said that?"

"Well, not in so many words. Only about half of it made any sense and even that was a bloody riddle. Went on for a few minutes about dangers in the shadows and snakes coming out of the snow in spring, but eventually he got back on task. You know how he is." Dawlish looks particularly unhappy then, like the fact that she understands how Malfoy can get is the most upsetting news of the day.

Hermione itches to know what exactly Malfoy said. She is starting to suspect that there is a strange logic to what he says from time to time, in the moments when he seems sane but his words seem to indicate otherwise. But maybe she's just making it up. Maybe she's so starved of things to do and problems to solve that she's inventing code in babble; fighting windmills like they are giants. "Yeah. I know how he can be. But that doesn't actually indicate that he was even thinking about me. Maybe he just wants a change in scenery. How long has he been trapped in Russia?"

Dawlish grimaces and leans back in his chair. "About a month. Our folk — English witches and wizards and anyone who was around when all this started last year — don't trust him as far as they can throw him, but the Malfoy name means something to the Durmstrang folk, and they don't seem as likely to try to get revenge on him if a spat goes sour."

"Why does he want to leave then?" She asks. The Malfoy she remembers from school is an arrogant child who would do anything to save his own skin. However she must admit even in her own head that the man she has so recently come to know bears little resemblance to the child she remembers. This makes her sad for some reason, like this change proves once and for all how the war has changed the world. She renews her promise to herself that this war will not change her.

"That's the strange thing," Dawlish rubs his hand over his face in a tired gesture and tilts his chair back so that he is balancing on two legs. "He said that there was nowhere safe that was far from you, but he also said that you needed a guard or something. Don't know what he thinks he could do for you that we can't, but," and here Dawlish pauses to make a face and a rather impolite gesture that universally indicates insanity.

Hermione nods like she doesn't find the gesture offensive, even though she does. Malfoy's words are indeed a puzzle and oh! If only she could see what actually happened! For a moment, she considers asking Dawlish for a copy of the memory, but she doesn't want him to know that she knows how to copy memories, and she still doesn't have access to a pensieve, anyway. So instead she says, "so am I going to be seeing more of Malfoy, then?"

Dawlish gives her a long and penetrating look. He shakes his head. No. "On the one hand, I don't like that he thinks he can get his way like this. If he thinks he can demand this, there's no telling what he'll ask for next. Or what he'll try to do once he's around you. He's been..." Dawlish pauses, looking for a word to use, "good for the most part, but that doesn't really mean anything with people like him. He's lost it, Granger, and the only thing he seems to be hanging on to is you. He's a snake and he's just waiting for the right chance to strike. I'm sure if it. From where I'm standing, that generally is not a good thing."

"On the other hand, it's you he's been after since the beginning. Suppose it's because you brought him in or some such rubbish. Maybe he didn't want to be picked up. Who knows. I don't." He leans back again and closes his eyes. Like he's preparing to do something painful. "So the way I see it, he's going to try to get to you. I'll do what I can to stop it, of course, but keep your guard up. I had a mate when I first started out in the force. He used to say 'constant vigilance' until we were all sick to death of hearing it."

Hermione doesn't interrupt to inform Dawlish that she knew Mad Eye Moody too, because Dawlish still seems like he's working up to something. He's skirting around an issue and she desperately wants to know what it is. Maybe he's going to tell her she can fight. She doesn't want to get her hopes up, but she sits a little straighter on her chair, anyway.

"But it's good advice and it's advice I'm going to pass on to you now because the day's going to come when it's just you and this bad guy alone in a room, and I've gotten a bit keen on keeping you around Granger, and I'd like to keep it that way. A bit like, er, well," he exhales sharply through his nose and swears. "I'm no good at this. Words are," he gestures vaguely in the air with both hands. "I mean, you're alright, Granger, and I hope Sam grows up a bit like you." He rushes the words out like he is ripping off a band aid. His cheeks are pink when he finished speaking and he is staring at his knuckles on the table before him. The familiar vein in his neck is throbbing.

Hermione's cereal is little more than soggy mush in her bowl at this point and she just stares at him, unsure of how to answer. Eventually, she says, "In the first battle we fought together, after it was over, Mallory Bullstrode checked a body. What did she discover?"

"Damn it, Granger! I was being serious!" He stands up. "She discovered that Adams was alive. Anyway, I've got a meeting with Lupin and the others. You're on duty as main healer at Andromeda's tomorrow night. Might want to go through the potions stores. Draw up a list of what you need and give it to Bullstrode. She'll get you whatever she can," and with that he storms out of the room.

She watches him leave, and then returns to poking at her sopping cereal, although it no longer seems remotely appetizing. She allows herself a small smile. It isn't an assignment to a squad, but it is something. She has never been head healer for anything before and this feels like a step in a direction she can approve of. Of course it isn't the same as actually being in a fight, but perhaps this is something that she can do well on her own.

She will always regret that she does not see Dawlish again before the spat. That she didn't say thank you.

* * *

**Tuesday, January 5th**

It is still snowing. It seems like it is always snowing now and the ground outside is covered with a thick white blanket when Hermione, Ginny, and Ernie take up three seats at the table. Ernie isn't allowed to fight now either, because he can't go up or down a flight of stairs without having to take a pause for breath. Nan says he's getting better steadily, but he isn't yet well enough to go into a spat without being more liability than asset. He's doing better with his wand now though, and so he is to help Ginny and Hermione when and if they need it.

That being said, this is the first battle that he is sitting out and so far, he doesn't seem too worried about it. He looks at the potions Hermione has organized on the table, including three small bottles of dittany that Mallory presented to her earlier today.

Ginny and Hermione sit tensed and tight-lipped. They are prepared to watch the hours tick by until someone brings in the injured or stomps in with news that they've gotten lucky tonight. Neither witch thinks that they will be lucky tonight. It isn't often that their side initiates attacks, but since finding Kingsley, everyone has been hungry for Death Eater blood. Ginny thinks this is a good thing — that this rage will give them the power they need to come out on top; Hermione is worried that it will just make them sloppy.

The attack tonight will be two-pronged. Lupin is leading the more experienced fighters in a direct raid against a known Death Eater safe house in Southern Wales, while Dawlish is taking the less experienced fighters — including Justin and Lavender — to a smaller battle in Scotland. It's a training battle for them, but no one expects it to get bad, and if it does, then Dawlish will protect them.

This is the first time Hermione and Ginny will be left alone to care for anyone who portkeys here. She knows that only a handful of witches and wizards have been given portkeys to this location, that those who don't have portkeys to Grimmauld place and dozens of other locations she doesn't know. Hermione has been left in charge, just as Dawlish promised, but when he'd mentioned it, she had rather hoped that it would be more than just her ordering around two of her friends. She isn't sure they'll listen to her, even if she does know what she's talking about.

The last of the fighters left half an hour ago, maybe a bit more.

Hermione bites the inside of her lip and runs her thumb in small circles along the base of her wand. Ginny gnaws noisily on her nails, even though they are already stubs. Ernie, however, is eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich which he washes down with a tall glass of cold milk that he has balanced carefully beside his plate between a tub of bruise cream and a fresh cauldron of blood-replenishing coagulant.

"So what do we normally do until they get back?" Ernie smacks out, picking at the crusts on his plate.

Hermione is too annoyed to answer, her nerves already stretched to breaking, but Ginny says, "We wait."

"Well yes," replies Ernie, who is clearly not getting the hint that Hermione is trying to send his way in venomous glares, "but what do we _do_? Surely you don't just sit around waiting for—"

The back door bangs open and Mallory stumbles in just as the portkey bell rings. She appears to be holding the left side of her face on with her hand and blood trickles down her arm. Her right eye — the only one visible — is leaking water and Hermione can't tell if it is from the pain or something else.

Hermione grabs a bottle of dittany and a vial of regular blood replenishing potion and Ginny is already lowering the bleeding witch to the floor.

"It was a setup," she chokes out and it sounds like she is talking through marbles. "He was there."

"I'm going to need to look at it, Mallory," Hermione says gently, and closes her fingers around Mallory's left hand.

Mallory shakes her head and the tremble runs all the way down her body and she lets out a gagging sound. Her right eye rolls back, exposing only the white, and her head lolls to the side.

"She's going into shock," warns Ginny, who has a hand on Mallory's pulse.

Hermione pulls Mallory's hand back from the injury. In the background, she registers the sound of Ernie vomiting, but forces herself to look at the curse damage. She tries to tell herself that it is only a body. That it is just a problem that she needs to fix and _can_ fix because Hermione has always been good at solving problems, but her hands still shake as she drops dittany onto the exposed bone, exposed tissue, exposed teeth.

There is another banging on the door but Hermione doesn't look up from where she is now running her wand along the deepest cuts, and two sets of boots stomp past her. Ginny stands though, and she and Ernie talk to the newcomer briefly in quiet voices.

Hermione is trying every spell she can think of to save what is left of Mallory's left eye, but she doesn't know what to do with the white, yolky remains leaking from under the recessed socket. This is dark magic that she doesn't know and there is probably a healer somewhere who can save the eye, or replace it, but Hermione is not really a healer, so she does all she can. She sutures the slashed skin with her wand, siphons off the blood and vitreous, wraps a length of gauze around the mess, tips the blood replenishing potion down her throat, and levitates Mallory up the stairs and into her own bed, pulling the blankets over her by hand before racing back downstairs.

The kitchen which was so empty only minutes ago is now overrun. Ginny is hovering over a bloody body that Hermione can't identify from this far away and Ernie is flitting between three more. Hermione starts when she notices Malfoy crouched over one of these bodies, a vial in his hand.

She goes to Ginny first, who she can tell now is treating Colin Creevey with dittany.

Ernie flits between Justin Finch-Fletchley, Lavender Brown, and the Russian auror whose name Hermione still doesn't know. Hermione's mind flashes back to the other night. Everyone is back.

"Ginny," Hermione mumbled to the other witch as she edges past her, "they're coming in from both sites now. Do you think—"

Ginny looks up at her and there is a wild panic in her eyes. She nods once, and then returns to her work.

The idea that there is a traitor among them who alerted the death eaters to both attacks settles like lead in her stomach, but she keeps moving. Not because she wants to. All she wants to do right now is curl up in bed and cry until everything is all better. She moves because she has to, because the injured are still bleeding and moaning on Andromeda's kitchen floor and someone must care for them. If not her, then who?

Justin is conscious, at least, leaning against the wall and nursing a blood replenishing potion in his lap. He looks pale and sweaty and he is covered in blood, but he seems alright for the most part. There is a pink line across his neck where he was just magically healed. Ginny's work, most likely. Lavender is unconscious, and Malfoy is leaning over the Russian wizard, muttering so quickly in a language that Hermione doesn't know that at first she thinks he is muttering some sort of spell. An answer comes from the Russian, though, and a bubble of blood bursts on his lips, peppering Malfoy's face in dark red. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice, though, and instead tilts the vial back into his mouth again. It is dittany, Hermione realizes. One of their precious few bottles.

She grabs Ernie by the shoulder as he heads back towards the Russian wizard and Malfoy. "Stick with Lavender. I'll take care of the auror."

"What was he hit with?" Hermione asks as she kneels beside Malfoy. She murmurs a spell and traces her wand along the wizard's torso, looking for any sign of internal bleeding. His entire torso lights up blue. She swears softly to herself.

"I was otherwise engaged when this happened. I do not know what hit him."

"Well what is he saying?" Hermione shoots back almost before Malfoy has finished speaking.

"He says to take care of the girl because he is a lost cause." Like he is talking about a book he read once and didn't particularly like.

"I don't know how to save him, either," Malfoy says flatly, but his hands tremble as Hermione takes the dittany from him.

Hermione starts desperately murmuring all the healing spells she knows, but he only coughs more violently, blood spilling from his mouth like he is drowning in it. But it is not like how Dean died, there is no blood leaking from anywhere else. Only his mouth. She remembers a blood clot like a slug trickling onto the floor, and then she remembers. She doesn't know why she didn't see it before, but of course she wasn't looking, and this isn't the same, not completely. She doesn't have time to—

And then she knows what to do. She scrambles to her feet and stumbles over to the kitchen drawer, rummages until she finds what she needs, and dashes back, knocking over a kitchen chair in her rush. She drops to her knees beside him again, and there is a kitchen knife in her hands. Before Hermione can blink and decide this is stupid, she drives the knife into the man's chest.

Nearby, someone screams, but Hermione is already pulling the knife out again with a sickening sucking sound and then plunges the knife in again on the other side of his chest.

She points her wand, shaking, at the man now bleeding profusely on the floor, but it took more strength than she anticipated to stab him, so she turns the wand hilt first to Malfoy, and pants out, "Siphon the blood out!"

He looks at her strangely for a heartbeat, and then complies, running her wand over the leaking gashes.

There is a bottle of dittany in her hands and the knife is on the floor and suddenly understanding lights up in Malfoy dead gray eyes. The man doesn't seem injured because he isn't. He is filled up with blood and he is drowning in it. He pulls the blood out through the first stab with her wand — so much blood — so much more than there should be — and then he is moving on to the other cut and Hermione is droppering dittany into the wounds she so recently made.

The man coughs violently a few more times, choking bright red blood all over his chest and Hermione pulls him into a sitting position while Malfoy accios a bucket. "Cough it all up," she orders the man, and he nods in understanding before he coughs again.

She turns her attention to Malfoy, and holds her hand out, silently requesting her wand. She trusted him with it when she needed to, and she hopes he doesn't betray that trust. He seems to consider this, too, and stares at the polished wood in his hand, worn smooth where her thumb rests, and then he lurches slightly toward her, too fast for her to move back. The stench of rot and rust are overpowering on his breath when he presses her wand into her chest and says, "Ron and the slugs in our second year." And then pulls back.

She is holding her wand over her pounding heart now, and nods once before standing up to help others.

Lavender is breathing by the time Hermione drops down beside Justin and Ginny joins them there.

"She'll be alright, I think," Ernie says, and his hands and voice are shaking so badly that Hermione takes the bottle of dittany from him and Ginny throws a comforting arm across his shoulders.

"You did well," Ginny says bracingly.

Hermione turns to Malfoy. "What happened?" She demands.

"It was an ambush," Malfoy replies flatly. "The house was clear at first, but then the Death Eaters began to apparate in."

There is blood all down the front of Malfoy's shirt and the bottom half of his face. Hermione doesn't know how she didn't notice before, but then again, she is sure that she is covered with blood as well and so maybe she has just become desensitized to its presence.

"The Dark Lord appeared. Robards gave the order to get out. Andrei was hit with a curse and could not activate his portkey. I assisted."

"But what happened to the others?" Ginny asks, gesturing at Lavender and Justin.

Malfoy shakes his head. "I wasn't at that location. I don't know."

Justin's shaky voice comes from the corner. "Dawlish," his voice cracks, "Dawlish is dead."

Hermione sways and feels the ground lurch toward her, so she lowers herself to the floor beside the still-unconscious Lavender. The room is as silent as a funeral hall for a long moment, then Ernie finds his voice. "Did we at least get the son of a bitch that did it?"

"It was H-Him," Justin stutters, looking like he is about to cry. "V-Voldemort showed up and- and He d-did it."

"How many did we kill?" asks Ginny, looking from one blond wizard caked in blood to the other.

Malfoy gives a tight-lipped smile and says, "Three." When he opens his mouth, Hermione can see that his teeth are stained red and there are pieces of meat trapped between them.

* * *

No one else shows up for the rest of the night, but they are all too afraid and worried to sleep, so they take it in turns to check on Mallory, Andrei (the Russian), Justin, and Colin. They run out of pain killers before Colin and Mallory even wake up and when they do, they both are screaming. Colin is screaming because he doesn't know where he is and Mallory is screaming because the first thing she did upon waking is check under the bandage pressed against her eye.


	15. The Holes Things Leave Behind

**A/N: **Hi, guys. I'm really sorry for the wait. Life is crazy, you know? Reviews keep this thing going.

**Chapter 15: The Holes Things Leave Behind**

* * *

**Wednesday, January 6th, early morning**

The morning after the spat, Andrei and Malfoy disapparate back to wherever it is they are staying. Not once during the night does Malfoy say a single word to Hermione, but she is so busy that she doesn't even realize until after he is gone. Through a thick haze of sleep deprivation and adrenaline, she wishes that she'd had a chance to ask him more about her monster, who has been so silent for the last few days that she is beginning to wonder if it is all some strange plan concocted by Malfoy to scare her. She has so many questions that she might drown in them.

Less than an hour later, Andromeda returns, looking exhausted, but there is a lightness in the lines around her mouth. She whispers to Ginny and Hermione, the only two awake when she stumbles through the back door just after dawn, that Tonks — her husband, Ted — is alive and staying with Tonks — her daughter, Nymphadora — until they can find somewhere safer for him. "He wants to fight, of course," she chuckles, "but I think I've talked some sense into him at last."

* * *

Later that morning, Andromeda examines Mallory's damaged eye and face. "The good news is that the damaged skin won't scar." She gives Hermione a tight nod. Hermione understands this to be something akin to a compliment on her healing abilities, and nods in acceptance of the praise. Andromeda returns her attention to Mallory, and she gingerly replaces the bandages over the empty eye socket, now crusted over in greenish-white flakes and scabbing. "We'll find you a cosmetic replacement for that, maybe even something functional, once things calm down."

Mallory's good eye looks beseechingly out at Andromeda, but she nods once. She understands. Her fists curl around the sheet and she rolls away from them, towards the window.

Hermione understands what went unsaid, but somehow she still needs confirmation. Like until the words are said out loud, she won't believe it. So when Andromeda quietly shuts Mallory's door and locks and silences it with her wand, Hermione asks the question. "Is there anything that anyone can do to save her eye?"

Andromeda looks long and hard at Hermione and then replies: "She didn't deflect the curse quick enough. Had the caster been more proficient, we would have much worse than a missing eye to worry about. She is lucky to have escaped without lasting nerve or brain damage." Her words are cold, but Hermione has come to know that when she is shaken, Andromeda cuts herself off from the emotional part of her mind. It is a skill that Hermione envies, and also one that she fears. The older witch sweeps down the hall, a beautiful and terrible creature of ice and stone. Hermione marvels that, somehow, this is the same woman who, only hours before, confessed in a relieved whisper that her husband had returned.

* * *

Hermione brings Mallory soup for dinner. She lets herself in and is surprised to find Mallory sitting up in bed, writing a letter. She smiles at Hermione when she enters. This is the first time that Hermione has seen Mallory without makeup and the result is more staggering than it should be. Her one good eye looks so small among the bandages. She forces herself to smile back.

"Hey," she says lightly, although the left side of her mouth still doesn't move under a thin sheen of light blue paste.

"Hi. I have to change your dressing again. I can come back later for that, if you'd prefer." Hermione sets the tray of soup down on the nightstand, and shifts from foot to foot waiting for a response. She doesn't know if or how much Mallory blames her for what happened. She isn't sure if she should even be here at all. She wishes that Andromeda had asked Ginny to do this instead.

"No, no," Mallory says, setting down her quill and parchment on the bed beside her farthest from Hermione. "Now is fine. Just writing to Millie."

"Ah," Hermione says, taking a tentative step forward. She pulls out her wand, rubs her thumb in small circles on its base, debates stepping forward and just going to ask Andromeda to do this instead.

"I'm not going to attack you, Hermione," Mallory laughs, although it sounds harsh, forced.

Hermione pretends to smile back.

Mallory really looks at her then, with her one good eye. "I don't blame you, you know. This is no one's fault but my own." The way she says this is so forceful that Hermione can't argue.

"What happened?" She asks. "No one ever gets the better of you in matches. I should know." Hermione gives her a half smile.

Mallory only grimaces in response. "It was Pansy. Her mask slipped and I just — I don't know — how are you supposed to duel against the kid with the shitty haircut who used to spend summers at your house?" She drops her head back against the headboard with a thunk. She stares at the wall opposite her bed like there is an answer she can read there. "So I hesitated. Guess I just figured she wouldn't attack me. Not _me_. Not really. So I hesitated. She didn't, obviously."

"It's good that you got your wand up at all," Hermione observes.

Mallory smiles back grimly. "Yeah, well, the only the people to ever best me in a wizards' duel are all dead now. I couldn't lose my title to little Pansy, could I? How could I ever show my face around here after something like that?"

"So did you get her back?" Hermione can't help but ask, feeling a vicious anger tearing through her.

Mallory leans toward Hermione, a sad smile on her face. "I didn't do anything. I activated my portkey and got out of there. She could've killed any number of people that night, but I didn't stop her."

* * *

**Saturday, January 9th**

Hermione exists in a quiet sort of limbo. There are no spats — not that she knows of, anyway — but she didn't expect anything else. As far as she can tell, the five patients that showed up at Andromeda's weren't the only wounded that night and the aurors who have floated through the house in the last few days have seemed like ghosts lost in a fog.

After Dawlish died, the lines between order and auror finally blur, and everyone will officially take orders from Lupin and a handful of others. This translates very little to Hermione — at least not immediately. Nobody mentions a potential traitor, at least not to her, although she cannot get the slick fear that someone has betrayed them out of her mind.

"No one knows what to do without Dawlish," Mallory explains that afternoon as Hermione changes the dressing on her empty eye socket. "He was this constant. After Kingsley, he was the best we'd had. I don't know anyone who didn't train with him or fight with him at some point. We've lost three heads of department in the last two years. Those aren't good odds, even for us."

Andromeda leaves a day old copy of the Prophet out on the kitchen table each morning, and Hermione reads every page. The journalists aren't on their side any more than the ministry is.

The paper doesn't mention Dawlish, though, or the order or anything besides BOOMING PROGRESS! When Hermione wonders why the death eaters haven't ferreted out any of the order safe houses or bunkers, this BOOMING PROGRESS indicates that the Death Eaters are too busy trying to rule the wizarding world to worry about squashing insurrection just yet. It's a waiting game. The enemy has the upper hand, but Hermione does not for an instant think that her side is beat. When Harry comes back, things will be different. They'll have a direction to head in and a real reason to fight. She'll have her best friend back.

She misses Harry and Ron more than she thought humanly possible. She imagines missing them as a hole in her — like a giant bite taken out of her side, just above her hips, and she is just sort of walking around missing this piece.

She cries herself to sleep every night but makes sure that she is quiet enough not to wake Ginny, and never stays asleep for long. As soon as her eyes close, she feels like she is being watched. This fear wakes her up every few hours, and keeps her from falling back to sleep.

* * *

**Sunday, January 10th**

Dawlish's funeral is held the Sunday after his death. Mallory sits with her fellow aurors, all dressed in their formal robes and standing very close together. Like they are holding one another up; a human wall erected between life and death. Hermione hangs back beside a tree, unsure how close she should get. She hasn't known Dawlish for very long and funerals always make her feel like she is intruding on someone else's grief.

The aurors raise their wands to begin the magical salute and Hermione raises her wand, too. She turns, and returns to Andromeda's house with a small pop just as the first rays of light gather on the auror's wand tips. She is moving back to Grimmauld place today with Ginny. Lupin's orders.

* * *

Grimmauld place is quiet, and covered in half an inch of dust. Hermione doesn't know if anyone has even been here since Lady Black's portrait was smashed. She wonders, vaguely, if that was her monster's doing. It seems senseless enough to be something her monster (for lack of a more fitting title, this is what she calls it in her head) would do.

Hermione can see the huge hole where the portrait no longer hangs, wood splintered around it like broken bones. "Do you know where Kreacher's staying?"

"With Bill and Fleur, I think," Ginny says as she wanders into the kitchen. "You don't think there's any food in here, do you?"

"Andromeda gave me some stuff before we left," Hermione says, and begins rummaging in her handbag. She walks through the dining room into the kitchen, a loaf of bread in one hand and a container of Molly's homemade jam in the other. She slides by the dining table, and it is almost as if she can see her conversation with Kingsley unfolding there after she broke out of that dark cell. Actually, thinking back on it, her miraculous escape makes so much more sense now that she knows there is a monster stalking her, maybe even protecting her, although she isn't sure she's ready to test that hypothesis yet. But that conversation with Kingsley is still so fresh in her mind that she has to remind herself that he is gone. Dawlish is gone, too, and so is Fred and so is Luna and so is Hannah and so is Dean. She shakes her head to dispel these thoughts and wipes her eyes roughly on the sleeve of her jumper.

She puts the food on the counter while Ginny is still looking through cupboards. "Just put away what you don't eat," she says, and turns back toward the door, careful to turn away before Ginny can see her still glistening eyes. "I'm going to check upstairs for potions supplies."

"Alright," Ginny calls after her, "holler if you need anything."

* * *

**Wednesday, January 13th**

Andromeda sends an owl to enlist Hermione in helping to pack up what's left in Dawlish's room.

"His wife will be here this afternoon, and I just don't have the time," Andromeda writes. She offers lunch in exchange for help. Hermione sends a letter back with the same owl saying she'll be there at ten, but mostly she goes because it's been three days since she's seen anyone but Ginny.

Mallory meets her in the kitchen. There is a black patch over her left eye. "Andromeda got me too," she says with a smile as she leads Hermione to the stairs. "Said it would be good for me. I think she fancies me depressed."

"Are you?"

Mallory pauses, her foot between two steps, but then continues. "Probably," she says, and tries to throw Hermione a conspiratorial look over her left shoulder, but all Hermione sees is the patch. Realizing this, Mallory repeats the gesture over her right shoulder. "I swear I'll get used to this eventually," she grumbles to herself.

The room is clean. Anything of use to the order has already been removed, and so Mallory and Hermione just pack his personal items into boxes. It is so strange for Hermione to be going through Dawlish's things, but she knows it is stranger for Mallory, who is trying to hide her tears in the piles of clothes she folds and tenderly places into boxes. Hermione dutifully pretends not to hear her sniffs and sobs. She takes care of his books, reading the spines, just to make sure that she isn't packing away something useful. A Hogwarts yearbook that is charred slightly around the edges from when his room caught on fire months ago, a book on the dark arts that still looks fairly new, a black-bound journal that is also charred, two biographies of famous wizards from the first wizarding war, and a dog-eared seashell identification book, which Hermione holds for a moment longer than really necessary before she places it in the box.

Half an hour later, as promised, a thickset, small woman with faded blonde hair and a round, running nose knocks twice before entering the room, hesitant, like she doesn't know who or what to expect inside.

"Addie!" Mallory's voice cracks as she runs to the other woman.

"Oh Mallory," and they are sobbing into each other's arms and Hermione turns back to the bookshelf, too embarrassed and out of place to want to watch this exchange of such private emotion. Mallory recovers herself first, and guides the widow to the bed.

"You need to help us sort things," Hermione says, trying her best to sound gentle and kind. "Just let us know what you want to keep and what you want donated. We'll take whatever you don't want. Books kept at safe houses to help fight the hours and days of boredom, clothes for bandages and replacements when something tears, blankets and bedding for —"

The widow's hands are clasped in her lap and tears drip onto her black pants. She looks like she has just come from a funeral, and Hermione wonders if maybe she did, and she feels a sick kick of guilt in her stomach because she never even asked if there were going to be more funerals this week. Surely Dawlish wasn't the only one who died in that awful spat, but she never even asked.

Dawlish's wife nods, and Hermione brings over a stack of books. "Just pull out anything you don't want to keep," she says, as gently as she can. The widow nods again and Hermione sets the stack down on to the bed beside her. With still hands and shaking shoulders, the widow picks up the first book.

Hermione admires the way in which Addie manages to go through the books, hardly crying now, but dutifully dividing the books into two piles. When she picks up the field guide on shell identification, though, she lets out a wail like a hurt animal and Mallory is beside her before she can collapse onto the bed. The widow says something to Mallory, whose face goes just a bit whiter, and whose bottom lip and jaw tremble as she fights down tears. She presses her forehead against the widow's and says something low in response. The widow nods, and, shaking, stands and walks unsteadily for the door. Once she is out, Mallory turns to Hermione and lets out a shuddering sigh.

"It was the field guide," Mallory chokes out. "Dawlish and those fucking seashells." This makes her let out a wet laugh and then just cry harder.

"What about them?" Hermione asks, confused.

"It wasn't a thing Dawlish gave a rat's ass about."

Hermione shakes her head, confused. "It was _her_ hobby — Addison's. He'd go out on missions and he'd always," she swallows, "he'd always bring her back shells. They were always different and she, she never figured out how he always managed it. Until she saw the book."

Mallory picks the book up off the bed, and flips through it until she got to the shell diagrams. "The idiot," she chokes out and passes the book to Hermione.

On the pages of diagrams, pictures of shells were crossed out in various colors of ink with different dates written beside them. Lace Murex was cross out, as was Lightning Whelk, dated two days before that visit to Azkaban. All of the shells she had ever seen him pick up, eye or pocket comes flooding back to her, and she sinks to the floor, clutching the book to her chest, her eyes spilling bitter tears onto the thin carpet.

Two hours later, Mallory and Hermione walk Addie Dawlish to the back door. They have boxed all of Dawlish's possessions. Addie donates everything but the Hogwarts yearbook, journal, and the field guide.

* * *

Hermione still shares a room with Ginny because the familiarity of that is something to hang on to in this upside-down world. Late at night, Hermione can almost convince herself that she is back in the Gryffindor dormitory at Hogwarts, listening to Lavender and Pavarti breathing quietly. The illusion never lasts long, though, and she never sleeps at night, anyway. She wakes up after only sleeping for an hour or two, sure that there is something she ought to be doing. She checks and rechecks the wards around the house.

* * *

**Friday, January 15th**

She fixes a charmed bell above the stove. She and Ginny take turns apparating from the front step to the back porch to make sure it rings whenever someone enters the grounds. It is the most excitement they have had all week.

* * *

**Saturday, January 16th**

Hermione is brewing more modified blood replenishing potion on the stove and Ginny is playing with Crookshanks at the kitchen table when the bell by Hermione's head rings. They both freeze and exchange a tense look. Hermione puts down her spoon and picks up her wand.

"You get the front door, I'll take the back," she whispers. Ginny nods, and scurries toward the front door.

Hermione flattens herself against the back door and holds her breath.

There is a pounding on the door beside her and her heart freezes against her ribs.

"Hey, Hermione!" Calls Justin's voice. "Ginny! The door's locked! Are you in there?"

"Just open it," suggests Ernie's voice.

"But what if they're, uh, indisposed?" Justin sounds nervous. Hermione can imagine them fidgeting on the other side of the door.

"Oh for heaven's sake! Aloha-"

Hermione yanks the door open.

"Oh. Hello, Hermione," Ernie straightens up, dusting imaginary dust off of his jacket.

Ginny presses against Hermione's shoulder, looking at their visitors.

Hermione grins at Justin and Ernie, but there is a third set of eyes watching her from just beyond the steps, three or four paces behind Ernie and Justin. He does not blink or turn his gaze from her, but meets her expression with cold persistence. He is there. He is waiting to see how she will react. If she didn't know better, she would say that he is curious. The smile is frozen on her lips. "Malfoy," she says curtly. "What brings you here?"

Ginny, who can't properly see much beyond Ernie's left shoulder, stiffens when Hermione says his name but she, very prudently, doesn't comment and Hermione pretends not to notice Ginny pulling her wand from her back pocket.

"Lupin thinks he should be socializing." Justin offers, giving Hermione a shy smile.

"And I volunteered. I owe Malfoy here a wizard's debt." Ernie puffs out his chest and positively beams at Malfoy.

Malfoy's gaze slides evenly from Hermione to Ernie. "You shouldn't tell people that, McMillan. Someone will eventually take you seriously."

Ernie's cheeks go a bit pink. "I am serious, Malfoy, and a McMillan never forgets his debts."

"Maybe you should," grumbles Ginny to Hermione, too quietly for the others to hear.

"Indeed," says Malfoy softly, and Hermione thinks for an instant that he is responding to Ginny before she realizes that would be impossible. He must have been answering Ernie's comment.

Justin lets out a small laugh and Ernie beams. "That's the most he's spoken all day!"

* * *

Hermione runs into Malfoy that night.

She is headed back downstairs after Ginny has fallen asleep. There is a book under her arm and she has it in her mind to have a nice cup of tea and do some reading when she hears a meowing from the kitchen.

She enters to find Malfoy sharing a hunk of cheese with Crookshanks, who is sitting on the table beside the pale, gaunt wizard.

She has half a mind to turn and go back up the stairs, but Malfoy's eyes are already on her, so instead she continues forward into the kitchen and barks out, "Crooks, off the table!"

Her cat gives her a sullen look and walks slowly toward the chair beside Malfoy's which he hops down to daintily and meows softly for another piece of cheese. Malfoy obliges.

"Cats can't digest dairy, you know," she tells Malfoy as she walks towards the teapot. "He's going to feel awful later."

Malfoy looks between her and her cat. "He seems to enjoy it."

She turns to look for the kettle in the cupboard and mutters darkly, "then he can sleep in _your_ room later, when he's a little farting machine."

In the silence that follows, Hermione realizes that she is talking about cat flatulence with Draco Fucking Malfoy. Words are clawing up in her throat now. She is overflowing with questions about her monster and where he has been and why is he here now, but she doubts that she will get much pertinent information out of him now. He is too much stone or ice to answer her honestly right now, and she wants to start things off peacefully between them if they're going to be in the same house for a few days. She clears her throat.

"Anyway," she says lightly, and fills the kettle from the sink, "why are you still up?"

She turns back to find him staring at her. Crookshanks is eating the cheese that has been forgotten in his hand. This is when Hermione realizes that she is wearing pyjamas, and it is probably the first time that Malfoy has seen her attired in ratty sweatpants and a t-shirt that is six sizes too big for her. He is still wearing the same auror robes that he has been wearing recently and Hermione makes a mental note to at least scourgify them for him at some point, because it is absolutely filthy to be walking around like that. She doesn't know how many people's blood is caked onto his shirt, and she is positive that she doesn't want to know.

"I find it difficult to sleep in a large room on a bed," he says simply.

She is at a loss for words as to how to respond to this. It is much more honest than she really expected. "Oh," she says simply, because she cannot let such a confession go unanswered. It seems so much like confessing to weakness that she has to press for more. "When was the last time you slept in an actual bed?" Because curiosity will always be her downfall.

He looks away from her then, like he is counting the days in his memory. "I don't know," he says eventually, "half a year. Maybe more. Maybe less."

"What did they do to you there?" She asks, and taps the kettle with her wand. It whistles and she begins rummaging for mugs. Thankfully, the kitchen is much the way Kreacher left it when they abandoned the house the first time.

"Do to me where?" He is trying to push Crookshanks away from the last of his cheese, but the cat clambers into his lap and reaches out a paw for it. Malfoy lets him have it with a sigh of resignation.

Hermione smiles to herself. He seems almost human. "What kind of tea do you want?" she asks.

Malfoy tilts his head to one side like he doesn't understand the question.

"We have Chamomile, Earl Grey, Irish Breakfast, Peppermint-"

"Peppermint, please," he says and his tone is commanding but his gaze is uncertain. She fills two mugs with water, drops a peppermint teabag in one and a chamomile teabag in the other and walks them both over to the table.

"I'd offer honey," she says, almost apologetically, "but I don't know where Kreacher kept it."

"The house elf," murmurs Malfoy distractedly.

"Yes," Hermione answers, and she blows on her tea. "So what did they do to you?"

He shakes his head again. "Who?"

"The death eaters. Wherever they were keeping you."

His eyes are glass marbles again, but he smiles at her. The expression looks out of place. "Nothing at all," he answers and she knows that it is a lie in the glimmer of his teeth.

"I didn't know they were going to," she pauses, trying to think of a delicate way to say what she means, and when she can't think of any other way to say it, "torture you. At the ministry. Azkaban, I mean. If I had known," she trails off, shaking her head.

"Always a bleeding heart, Granger," his voice is calm and smooth, like they aren't talking about people torturing him countless times for much too long. "It must sting greatly that Potter left you behind."

The words hurt at first, but then she realizes that he may just be trying to reciprocate the conversation. It is a strange thing to do, of course, but she can almost see a logic in this sort of behavior. It is like small talk, if one has been trapped and tortured for six months or more, maybe emotional slights from friends does count as small talk. She doesn't know. That begs the question, though, of whether he is a friend at all. She doesn't think so. Not yet, anyway. Not when there is so little humanity in him to befriend.

She sips her tea and eventually Crookshanks jumps down from Malfoy's lap. Just after dawn, Hermione heads upstairs to sleep. They do not speak.

* * *

**Sunday, January 17th**

Lupin comes to visit the next afternoon. Hermione wasn't expecting him, but she isn't particularly surprised, either.

She is stripping nettles in the kitchen when the bell chimes, signaling an arrival to the grounds, and she looks up as he walks in. "Lupin," she greets. It's odd to see him now, in this of all places. She sets down the dry branch. She doesn't ask him to sit, partially because this isn't her house but mostly because she doesn't feel particularly warm towards Lupin at the moment. He hasn't inspired confidence in recent months and it almost feels disloyal to Dawlish to switch back so easily to following Lupin blindly. She hadn't even realized that Dawlish was the authority figure who she was most used to dealing with until he was gone. She misses him, although she doesn't want to look too closely at the grief, lest it blinds her in the process. "He hasn't come downstairs today at all," she starts on at once. Lupin doesn't look surprised, "but I doubt Malfoy's actually why you're here, since you didn't bring an escort."

"I don't think I'd need an escort to talk to Draco, Hermione," Lupin sits down across from her, clearly done waiting for an invitation. "Contrary to what John was apparently telling you, Draco has been nothing but cooperative."

"I'm sure," Hermione counters, although she doesn't believe it. Not for a second.

"Appearances can be deceiving," Remus reminds her.

Hermione can't decide if this is ironic or well-informed, coming from the man who pretended not to be a werewolf and feigned ignorance about a perceived mass-murderer's status as an undocumented animagus all while teaching schoolchildren.

"I'd like to talk to you about a rather sensitive topic, if it's alright with you?"

She nods, and Lupin casts a silencing charm around the kitchen with a flick of his wand.

After a long pause, Lupin and Hermione both begin to speak at once.

"How many others—" she begins just as Lupin says, "Do you think that—"

And they both lapse back into silence again.

"After you," Lupin offers graciously, gesturing with one hand.

"No, please, I insist," Hermione defers. She was going to ask how many others besides Dawlish died that day, but now that she has a real chance to ask, she isn't sure that she wants to know.

Lupin, unaware of her thoughts, gives her a grateful look and begins to speak again. "I would like to talk to you about what you've observed of Draco over the last few months. Have you noticed any changes in his behavior since he was first taken into custody?"

Hermione takes a deep breath and leans back in her chair before answering. "That's a difficult question. I haven't spent very much time around him, so maybe you'd be better off asking Andrei or someone else he's spent more time with."

Lupin gives her an encouraging smile, and she finds herself almost anticipating 'five points to Gryffindor.' Almost. "I could do that, yes, but I'd like to know your opinion on this subject, too."

She can feel herself pulling up a bit straighter at the praise. "Well," she begins, already composing her lengthy response in her head, "from what I've seen of him, he's become significantly more lucid in the past few months, and most particularly, the last few occasions I've seen him. I think he still sort of lives in his own world, but I don't know if that will ever change. He is, of course, significantly changed from our time at Hogwarts," and there again is that little prick of nostalgic pain in her chest as she mourns the loss of the bigoted arsehole who tormented her and her two friends in school. "But I'm not sure exactly what those changes are. We don't exactly talk very much, and we never have."

Lupin nods. "Yes. I remember him from my time as teacher. He was not what one would call a pleasant young man, was he?"

Hermione can't help but smirk at that. The year Lupin taught at Hogwarts was the year she punched Malfoy in the face — one of, in her opinion, their more pleasant interactions to date. "So I suppose in that way, he's become more pleasant, although I'm not entirely sure why he's helping us now." She thinks back to his frequent mentions of her heritage over the last few months. It leaves a metallic taste in her mouth. "I don't think his views on blood status have changed all that much, quite frankly, so I don't really understand his motives." Her mind swings around to the traitor who is somewhere among them. She knows it can't be Malfoy because of the unbreakable vow. He'd be left dead where he stood if he betrayed the order. Just as she is preparing to tell Lupin this, he speaks instead.

"I actually disagree with you on that, Hermione," he says.

"Oh?" she blinks rapidly. "You think he's changed his mind about all of that pureblood nonsense?" She restates it just so she can be sure that this is actually what he is talking about. " Why?"

"Because of you, Hermione."

She snorts at this because obviously it is a bad joke, but Lupin just smiles slowly at her, like he is trying to be her teacher again. "Who did he ask for while in the ministry's custody?"

"Me," Hermione answers at once. "But that's only because I would be easy to manipulate." She wants to mention her monster, to say that even then he was probably aware of its existence and that it was most certainly why he wanted to speak to her, and to no one else. She doesn't say it, though, because if Lupin's chair explodes or the window cracks or something bad happens to him, then she doesn't think she'll be able to live with herself.

The answer she gives appears to be one that Lupin anticipated, though, because he presses, "then he should have asked for Ernie, or even for me. Very few people here have the tumultuous history that the two of you share, and it would have probably been much easier for him to deal with one of us. Or Miss Bullstrode. From what I understand, she got to know him through her sister when he was quite young, and probably feels a strong sense of camaraderie with him."

The news about a possible friendly history between Mallory and Malfoy sends a small jolt of surprise through her. Of course she should have anticipated it, since she knows how close Millicent and Pansy were, and she also knows how close Pansy and Malfoy at least appeared to be while in school. Mallory's warning against Malfoy, though, had led Hermione to believe that they were not close. Now, she wonders if perhaps the warning was informed with a lifetime of history behind it.

"And who," Lupin is saying, "has Malfoy requested to be stationed near? I know Dawlish told you — he asked to be transferred to the same safehouse as you."

"According to —" she swallows and changes direction. "He was hardly sane when he requested it. Only about half of what he says ever makes sense." She chooses not to mention the strange midnight meeting she'd had with him the evening before. She thought she understood where Lupin was going with this train of thought, and she wanted to give him no more fuel than he already had.

Lupin's smile widens. "But even in madness, he asked for you."

She can't argue with this, so she doesn't even try to. "So let's say he has changed his views because of me — which I am far from allowing, by the way — what difference does it make?"

"He's interested in you, Hermione."

"That's a bit of a stretch. I —"

"He doesn't speak to anyone else. Sometimes for days and weeks at a time. It's only when you are around that he opens up at all. He'll answer the questions we ask directly about safe houses and known death eaters, but he won't supply any information on his own."

Hermione is beginning to understand where this is going, and it's starting to make her feel sick.

"We think — I think — that he knows a lot more than he is telling us, but whether it's because he isn't quite sane enough to tell us or that he's refusing to tell us, I think you're the best chance we have at getting through to him. I suspect that your shared history is one facet of his memory that remained undamaged through the months of whatever the death eaters did to him."

"And the ministry," she adds.

Lupin grimaces like she just brought up something embarrassing he did as a teenager, "and the ministry," he echoes. "But we can use that existing connection to really pull him over to our side. Perhaps, if he spends time with you, his childhood rival, then he'll begin to regain some of whatever was lost."

She opens her mouth to say something, but can't think of anything remotely logical to refute this bizarre and outlandish statement, so all she says is, "sorry?" and then another long pause. "First of all, I was never his rival and he was never mine. He and Harry were always competing over something, and I was just sort of secondary to all of that."

"Just spend time with him. You're in a great position to collect information because, besides your shared history and his interest, you're also a rather gifted healer, from what I've been led to understand."

"Secondly," she presses on, "he doesn't need a healer, or someone from his past, Lupin, he needs a psychiatrist!" She raises her hands and her voice at once.

"A— is that a muggle profession, Hermione? I'm afraid I don't know it. Anyway, I'm going to leave Draco here for a few days. He's immensely useful in battle, so I'll send word for Ernie, Justin, and him when the time comes. If you can get some useful information out of him, we can talk about maybe sending you in, too. If my suspicions are correct, I don't think that Malfoy would leave your side in a fight, and he may even prove more dedicated to our cause if he thinks he'll lose his connection to his past."

It is the first time that someone has ever called what they go into with wands drawn a 'fight', and for some reason, this makes her want to cry and vomit at the same time. "Lupin, I don't—"

"Just think it over, Hermione. I know you'll make the right decision."

When Lupin leaves a half hour later, without even seeing any of the others, Hermione returns to stripping nettles, feeling unclean and unsure of how she will proceed.


	16. Sleep

**A/N: **There is a scene is this chapter that has been adopted from several other horror stories/films, at least one source is "The Spiderwick Chronicles" by Holly Black and Tony DiTerlizzi. If you know another place where this particular thing happens, please tell me so I can give proper credit where credit is due. Reviews keep this thing going.

**Chapter 16: Sleep**

* * *

**Sunday, January 17th, late**

Hermione spends the entirety of Sunday locked in her room after Lupin leaves, pacing back and forth and considering everything he said. It certainly is an interesting notion that Malfoy has some bizarre obsession with her, but then again, Lupin had spoken without all the facts; if he had known about her Corner Monster, he certainly wouldn't be so quick to make grand and sweeping assertions about Malfoy's motivations or interests. No — it's like trying to figure out a whole story from an excerpt on the back cover; she needs more information before she can reach a decision. Further study is needed. All Lupin had was a hypothesis, dressed up to imitate a fact.

She can almost feel judging, angry eyes upon her even as she considers doing as Lupin asks. No, it's too much. Too slimy. She rubs the goosebumps that are raised on her arm.

Ginny brings her a bowl full of lukewarm soup sometime after dark, and she knows Hermione well enough not to bother her with chatter while her mind is occupied with a new problem. Ginny goes downstairs to destroy Justin in a game of exploding snap.

* * *

**Monday, January 18th, very early**

Hermione stirs in the gray light of dawn because there is someone pulling on her hair. More asleep than awake, she tries to pull away from what she assumes are Lavender and Pavarti having a go at straightening her hair again. But whoever is on the other end doesn't let go.

"Ginny," she groans, flopping an arm over her eyes to block out the weak morning light. "Knock it off, I'm trying to sleep."

Halfway across the room, Ginny murmurs, "A sixth as much gillyweed, Arnold," and Hermione can hear the rustling of her blankets as the younger witch rolls over in her sleep. Potions with a pygmypuff? That's silly.

Hermione's eyes snap open then, and she tries to yank herself up in bed. She can feel hair rip from her scalp and lets out a whimper without meaning to. She slams her hand around on her night table for her wand, but she cannot sit up to find it. She jerks her head again, whimpers once more.

"Hermione?" Ginny calls out, her voice hoarse with sleep. "Keep it down a bit, yeah?"

"Ginny," and her voice wavers. She reaches her left hand up to feel her hair pulled tight against her scalp and the bedpost, her hair wound tightly around it.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Ginny's voice is stronger now, but she still sounds confused at finding herself awake at this ungodly hour in the morning.

"Ginny," Hermione cuts in, and her whole body is trembling, trembling, trembling now. She is trapped. Trapped in her bed by her hair. Trapped so she can't move. It is a death eater, yanking her away, taking her back to that tiny black room and the stink of dead bodies and the dark like death. "Someone — someone either came in or- or- or—" Her wand rolls off the nightstand and she summons it to her hand, thankful for all the time she has spent practicing wandless _Accios_. It flies against her palm and she feels herself begin to calm down. She is a witch and she has her wand and she forces her breathing to slow to a reasonable rate.

"Just relax," Ginny's voice is calm. Too calm.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Tears leak out through her eyelids, anyway. "I _am_ relaxed, Ginny Weasley, you have to warn the others. Are they still in this room, _Ginny there is someone else in this room."_ And then she can _feel_ its presence, like a massive insect clinging to the ceiling directly above her bed. She can almost make it out — broad and flat, claws like knives pointed down at her heart.

The light comes on. "Jesus fuck, Hermione, what the—" Ginny's mattress squeaks as she stands.

"Get me out!" Hermione screams. "I'm stuck— help me! It's right there! It's—"

"Is everything alright?" It's Ernie's voice in the doorway.

"Ernie! Thank goodness. Hermione's hair, it's…"

But Hermione isn't listening. She has opened her eyes, ready to face the dark monster on the ceiling, but there is nothing there — only the same wooden beams there always are.

"...did this happen?" Ernie's head leans into her field of vision, looking confused and upset. There is dried saliva on his right cheek and creases from his pillow. Ginny's face is beside his. Her hair hangs down in Hermione face and makes her nose itch, but, "Is anyone hurt?" Justin's voice comes before Hermione can answer.

"Is _everyone _awake now?" Ginny sounds exasperated, throwing her arms in the air above Hermione. "No — no one is hurt."

"Malfoy said that—"

"_Oh my god is Malfoy up, too?"_ Ginny shouts, wheeling away from Hermione and toward the doorway.

"Did he get you up, too?" Says Ernie at exactly the same moment, looking up toward the doorway.

"What are you talking about?" Calls Ginny's annoyed voice. "And do either of you care that you're in a girls' room at night?"

"Yeah, he did," Justin answers Ernie. "He said that Hermione needed to wake up for— actually I don't think he said what for. Why didn't I think to ask?"

"You were half-asleep, that's why." Ernie answers sagely, nodding to himself. "It's only reasonable."

"What did he tell you?"

"About the same," Ernie states, and shrugs. He walks out of Hermione's field of vision.

"Do you think Malfoy did this to her?" Ginny asks quietly. Hermione can hear the fear and confusion in her voice and can only imagine that it is also showing on her face.

"No, he can't have. This would've taken _hours_ without a wand. He was with me until about twenty minutes ago," says Justin. "We were playing with Crookshanks. I hope you don't mind, Hermione," he suddenly sounds nervous. "But we taught him to sit for bits of cheese."

"Why were either of you up at an hour like this?"

"Accio mirror," huffs Hermione since everyone is busy talking about Malfoy and no one will tell her what has happened.

And as the hand mirror whizzes across the room into her outstretched hand, everyone is talking to her at once.

"No, Hermione, don't—"

"Now hold on just a—"

"Er, maybe you shouldn't—"

But the mirror is in Hermione's hand and she looks anxiously at her own reflection. Her hair is fanned out like a halo above her head. Each strand of her hair is separated from the others and tied tightly to the bed frame. Thousands of tiny knots, and she cannot move. She runs her hand up the length of her hair.

She can't help it — she screams.

* * *

She silences the room before she enters.

He is sitting across from her cat, and they seem to be engaged in some sort of silent staring contest when she walks in. Her hair is two inches shorter all over and standing away from her head with a level of puff heretofore only experienced in very humid weather. The grandfather clock in the living room chimes eight o'clock, the sun is shining happily through the kitchen window and Ginny has only just finished evening out the haircut that the three of them gave her after giving up on untying all of the tiny knots against her headboard.

She slams her fist into the table. Malfoy barely even looks up at her. "How did you know?" she asks without preamble or explanation.

Crookshanks jumps lightly to the floor and slinks from the room, his belly low to the ground and his ears flat like he expects something bad to happen. Hermione hardly pays him any mind.

Malfoy blinks lazily up at her from his seat. His hands are flat against his thighs and his posture is rigid. His eyes slide behind her to something she cannot see. She moves around to the other side of his chair. "Tell me how you knew," she repeats, but it comes out more pleading than she means it to.

"I guessed," he says evenly.

She sneers at this. "Just like you 'guessed' who had Kin— the Minister." She cannot bring herself to say the names of the dead. It is a sacred space she dares not enter. Not yet.

"Just like I guessed who had Kingsley." His voice is flat, and he reminds her of a mirror. He is reflecting back precisely what she has already seen and already knows. She wants to throttle him.

A crack appears in the table between them, just beside her clenched fist. His eyes flick lazily down to it and then back up to hers. He seems almost angry, or like he is trying not to laugh. "Temper, Granger. Your friend is too hungry to be reliable."

"Stop saying things like that if you aren't going to explain yourself!" She roars. She is too tired to deal with Malfoy's infuriating, infantilizing behavior. There is a very loud snap, followed by a trickle of cold air across her face and Hermione's eyes flick upwards. The frame of the back door has broken and the door is hanging slightly open, allowing cold air into the kitchen.

"You use it very well for someone who claims ignorance of it. Consider, however the consequences of your actions."

"I realize that this has something to do with my temper. Figured that much out on my own, wouldn't you believe," she grouses out through clenched teeth. The chair opposite Malfoy explodes in a shower of splinters. She jumps back from the table despite herself, and the shock jars her from her fury.

"Cleverest witch," and his voice remains flat so she can't figure out if he's being serious or if he's making fun of her.

She balls her shaking hands into fists, but forces her breathing to even out. "But I don't know what, exactly, keeps happening." She presses on. Lupin's assertion that she is somehow important to him returns to her. At this moment, she cannot think of any reality in which Lupin could be any more wrong. He obviously gleans no enjoyment from anything and has exactly zero desire to cooperate with anything. They might as well obliviate him and set him loose to roam wherever his broken little mind wills. And then she instantly regrets the thought, it is so inhuman and so utterly not who she is. Instead of allowing herself to dwell on how infuriating he is, she stomps over to the broken door frame and repairs it with a quick spell.

"Lupin won't let you fight," he says instead of continuing the topic she chose.

She stalks back toward the table and repairs the crack by his hands, growling under her breath, "Well if you'd cooperate a bit more, then maybe they'd think I could do more than babysit a lunatic." Which isn't exactly true. They have never once asked her to babysit him, but she's angry enough at the moment that she doesn't really care. There is a very awkward moment while she considers that maybe she was close enough to him that he heard her. He confirms it a moment later.

"There is a hideout for young death eaters in northern Ireland. I can point it out on a map. That will be enough for now."

"You'll just tell me? Just like that?"

He smiles at her but it is a hazy smile and she is sure that there is something wicked behind it. His eyes shine with a light she cannot quite trust. "It will be worth my while. I will be paid handsomely for my service."

* * *

**Thursday, January 19th**

Hermione spreads a muggle roadmap of Ireland out on the table in front of Lupin.

"Hermione, what are all these coloured squiggles?" He traces A26 as it winds down from the northern coast with his finger.

"Muggle roads," she clips out. "And before we go any further, I want you to swear to me, on the life of your unborn son, that I will be a part of this spa— mission." The vernacular has changed on her, and she will not give even an inch of this to incompetence.

He gives her an indulgent smile, and she can almost hear him saying 'yes, Virginia, of course there's a Santa Claus,' so before he can even open his mouth to reply, she continues: "An active role. On site. Like you promised." Maybe it's petulant or childish to make demands like this, but her hair is shorter than it has been in years, and the only person who can even seem to tell that it's there seems to think that an active combat role will somehow appease it. There is more than her pride on the line now, although she doesn't want to consider precisely how much may be at stake.

He gives her a long look, and she can almost see the words forming in his eyes before he begins to speak.

"You're one of the best healers we have, Hermione," he says slowly, carefully.

She marvels to herself that, in the course of two weeks, she's gone from 'rather gifted' to 'one of the best,' but she doesn't say this out loud. Instead, she takes a deep breath and says exactly what she planned to say all along: "The funny thing about healers is that most effective militaries deploy one or two with the fighters. Are we not an effective military, Lupin?" She looks him in the eye when she says his name like he is an equal and not a superior, pulls herself up to her full height and pretends that she is as cold as Andromeda. She bites the inside of her cheek. She hopes.

"Of course we are, and I'm sure you know that Nan—"

"Nan is getting older. She isn't as fast as I am. Not with spells and certainly not on foot."

Lupin looks unsure for a moment. Her interruption has thrown him off, even more than she has dared to hope. She has logic on her side and she cannot lose. "If you are injured—"

"You're worried how Harry would react." She says his name like it didn't hurt to talk about him when he is not there. Like it didn't sting to know that even their ostensible concern for her is really only concern for him. She bites the inside of her cheek so hard that it bleeds and reminds herself that she can feel sorry for herself later. "Harry isn't here right now." And it sounds practiced when she says it because it is. She rehearsed this argument in the bathroom mirror until she could say it out loud without crying. "He hasn't been for months. We haven't even heard from him. You aren't protecting him by trying to keep me safe. All you are doing is letting more soldiers, more innocent people die."

Lupin doesn't have a response for that, but she can see that he is working on it, so again she presses on. "If you won't give me your word, Lupin, I'll take my information elsewhere. The aurors aren't sure about you, anyway, and I'm sure Mallory and the rest would have no qualms about helping me avenge Dawlish between recon missions." She's bluffing, of course, but she hasn't seen any aurors at all since she helped to sort Dawlish's books with Addie and Mallory, but he doesn't scoff in her face and call her on the lie, and she wonders if maybe she is right, or if this is just something that Lupin fears.

As she speaks, she watches the emotions slide unguarded across his face; surprise, followed by anger followed by something almost like pity, and then he says, "is that what this is about, Hermione?" He says it softly, and she looks down, ashamed at being caught in her own bluff. She bends a corner of the map back and forth and doesn't answer. Tears of shame are prickling in her eyes.

"I didn't know you missed him so much. I'm sorry. If I had known," his voice trails off in a sigh.

She looks up at him then, genuinely surprised. He is looking at her gently, and awkwardly reaches out a hand to pat her shoulder. "John was a good, brave man, Hermione."

Oh. Oh, no. This was unanticipated, and mentally she scrambles to come up with a good reply. And then she realises that Dawlish has been dead for less than a month. That he was a good, honest man who tried his best to protect her. "I've gotten a bit keen on keeping you around, Granger… I hope Sam grows up a bit like you," and the words ring like an accusation of her own coldness. She offers up a silent apology to his memory for not missing him as much as Lupin thinks she does, and takes a deep breath. She feels dirty and dishonest, but she is so close to getting what she wants — what she needs — that she cannot bring herself to correct him. Unbidden, her last face to face conversation with Lupin jumps into her mind next. "You're in a great position… Because of your shared history… " And the little piece of her brain that is always making connections between the present and the past, wonders at how universally true those words might actually be.

She presses on with her prepared speech. "I am going to fight," she says simply, and lets her tears of shame fall as though they mean something else. "With or without your support."

Lupin nods once, and squeezes her shoulder. "Of course. You have my word as a wizard and as a father."

She has, then, the feeling that she sometimes has when there are bodies bleeding out in front of her on Andromeda's kitchen floor and all she wants to do is go home and curl up in her bed and have her mom bring her a cup of tea with too much honey. The feeling that it would be so easy to give up, but there is no time for that now. Things are happening and she will do what is expected of her because no one else will do it for her. She takes a deep breath, wipes her eyes, and turns her attention to the map.

* * *

That night, when she is laying in bed, she turns the conversation over and over in her mind. She isn't sleeping, anyway, half convinced that there are infinite eyes upon her and half convinced that her monster, or whatever it is, will kill her as soon as she closes her eyes. So she thinks about things, instead, dissects memories and rolls the conversation with Lupin like a precious stone between her fingers. She sees herself, as if from above, letting Lupin believe that she is trying to avenge Dawlish in battle and then she wonders what Harry would have done. She rolls over, disturbing Crookshanks and smashing her nose into the pillow. She doesn't know the answer.

* * *

**Sunday, January 22nd**

Hermione has just finished bandaging Lavender's left shin when a spell whizzes by her head so close that it singes her hair. She can smell it in the air around her as she is stuffing the healing salves and gauze back into her pack. There is something warm dripping own her neck. It is blood, she realizes distractedly. The spell was closer than she first thought — it caught her around the ear while she was turning. She fires a series of stunning spells back through the doorway. Inside the room, there is a strangled scream.

Lavender gives her a wide, incredulous look as she sends a volley in after Hermione's and Hermione feels the _Avada_ rather than hears Lavender say the words. It sucks the magic from the air around them and leaves a hollowness in its wake. The green light flashes like a car accident across her vision, and then the spells stop coming out at them.

Hermione glances at Lavender. She is pale and wide-eyed, like she still can't believe what she just did. Hermione has seen this before, in the small spats she was part of months ago. She had forgotten that look. This is what the killing curse takes from people — it pulls everything out and there is only the wonder that it was so easy. Like turning off a light or closing a book. And the world does not close condemnation over your head, but continues on as though you have not changed. It always takes the caster a moment to fill back up again. At least, that's what it looks like to Hermione, who has still never cast a killing curse herself.

Lavender isn't moving, so Hermione grabs her around the wrist and jiggles her arm. It isn't a hard or violent gesture, but it is enough to shake the other girl out of her reverie. Her wide eyes travel around to Hermione and she looks so lost and pleading that Hermione says, "Come on, Lav. We've got to get to the recon point before the next wave portkeys in."

Lavender nods once and they plunge through the doorway together, wands ready.

The bodies on the floor belong to children. She doesn't recognize them from school, but they are wearing plain black robes with no markings and no masks. It is a boy and a girl, and the boy looks like he is about fifteen and the girl is maybe a year or two younger. They both have marble-blue eyes that stare blankly up at the ceiling. Their faces are as round and calm as dolls.

"No," whimpers Lavender beside Hermione. "No, no, no," she sounds like she is pleading with the universe. Like she is trying to undo what is already done, like denying it will take back the action, take back this whole war.

Hermione's grip around her wrist tightens in response. "They would have killed us first, Lavender," she says with iron in her voice. Her ear is still bleeding. "They were shooting to kill us too."

"But they're—"

"They were — look at me Lavender! — They were Death Eaters. No matter how big or how small, it was us or them and you made the right call, but this isn't over yet. I'm sure that they weren't the only ones in here."

Lavender takes a shuddering breath, and swallows hard. "I only," she swallows again,"I only cast it once. You h-h-heard me? You kn-know, don't you? I only cast once. Only once."

Hermione nods. "The other—" _the other what, exactly? Child? Death eater? Human? Student? The other what? _"The other was probably gone before we even got here. Caught in the crossfire, or—"

There is a loud bang somewhere behind them, like the death eaters have broken through the barrier Hermione hastily put up when she found Lavender bleeding on the floor only moments before.

"We have to go," Hermione barks out, but Lavender is already shouldering past her towards the door and the grounds behind. They drag forward, one step at a time, toward the apparition point. Although they both expect curses to hit them from behind at any moment, not a single one does.

* * *

**Monday, January 23rd**

Hermione thanks her lucky stars that she still has Crookshanks. She doesn't know what she'd do without him. He is asleep on her lap and he has been there for at least an hour already and she is truly calm for the first time in as long as she can really remember as she runs her hand through his thick fur. He isn't soft like he used to be — when she was just a little girl and he was a grand, clever creature. His ears are white at the tips now and he sleeps more than he used to, but Kneazles live a long time, and so she isn't too concerned for his health.

He is snoring lightly and his voice is a soft, squeaky wheeze and it is calming to think about him, a small living thing who can still muster enough peace for a nap and who is taking her with him to sleepy town whether she wants to go or not. She yawns and her eyelids are feeling heavy. The fire is warm against her shins and the ticking of the grandfather clock against the opposite wall gently invades her mind and she is overcome with peace and calm and a sense of safety so thick that it is like a cocoon around her. It is snowing again outside, she knows this, and for the first time in a very long while, sleep takes her gently.

Malfoy pads through the room sometime later, while she is still asleep. Her mouth is slightly opened and her head is tilted back against the chair. Crookshanks opens his eyes and regards the wizard sleepily. Malfoy regards the cat for a while before turning his gaze to the owner. He watches her sleeping like that, her breath rising and falling evenly. He is not sure how long because hours and minutes are not for him what they once were — but he watches her and the time ticks by on the grandfather clock and his mind is quiet.


	17. On Letting Go

**Chapter 17: On Letting Go**

**A/N: **In the name of authorial research, I damaged my right eye and spent a bit over a week bumping into things due to a sudden lack of depth perception. I BLEED FOR MY ART. Not really, though. I was a bit too forceful when taking out a contact and tore my conjunctiva. It was gross, but completely unrelated to this story. This is, however, the real reason why this chapter is late (and also I did spend a bit over a week bumping into things).

**T/W for gore, but if you haven't had a problem with it so far, you won't have a problem with it now.**

* * *

**Tuesday, January 24th.**

Andrei calls in person first thing in the morning for Malfoy. They exchange words in quiet, tense Russian and then they leave again. No one in the house knows where they go, or when they will be back.

"Good riddance," says Ginny, and goes back to polishing the handle of her broom.

"Well now," Ernie blusters. "He isn't so bad these days." Justin nods in response and Lavender looks pensively out the window.

Hermione keeps quiet, pretends she doesn't hear them, and goes back to reading her book.

* * *

**Thursday, January 26th. **

When the bell above the stove rings, Hermione assumes it's Malfoy returning, but she is wrong.

Mallory enters Grimmauld Place in a whirlwind of forced cheerfulness and snow. "Andromeda and Lupin have agreed that I am fit for combat once more!" she announces to Ginny, Hermione, and Lavender, who are all sitting at the kitchen table, eating instant macaroni and cheese from a single metal pot. There is a new, sleek, black patch over her missing eye, and she drops her backpack with a clank of banging bottles onto the table beside Lavender, who has been pale and quiet since their last mission. "So I've got booze, fireworks, and food. We're going to have a party. I'm in charge now. Who all is here?"

The three Gryffindors look between each other, completely taken off-guard by this sudden entrance and announcement. "Uh, it's us, plus Ernie and Justin," Ginny supplies after a moment.

That evening, the six of them finish three bottles of muggle liquor and set off Mallory's set of ancient-looking Filibuster's Fireworks in the parlor. They count down until midnight together on the grandfather clock in the living room and when it chimes, Mallory cheers, "Happy Friday!" for no reason in particular. Even Hermione joins Ernie, Mallory, and Ginny in a celebratory shot of bourbon. She slams the shot glass on the table and immediately starts to cough, pulling a face. Ernie pats her heartily on the back while the others laugh.

"It isn't funny," she gasps as she swipes a hand across her eyes. She continues to choke. She just wasn't expecting it to burn all the way down, or the woody harshness to linger in her mouth for quite this long.

"Course it is," Ernie says bracingly. "Even the Great Hermione Granger thinks whiskey's rough. It's the first time we've seen you shaken."

"Not for us," Lavender smiles mysteriously over the rim of the bottle of vodka that she'd claimed as her own hours earlier. This is the first time that she has smiled since their last mission. "Right, Ginny?"

Ginny wrinkles her nose and rocks with laughter. "Yeah, right after school let out, fifth year — sixth year for you lot— and we were in the common room and," she snickers again.

"What?" Justin asks. Hermione is pleased to note that he's been nursing a single beer for the better part of the evening. "What happened?"

"She had one drink," Lavender picks up, her eyes squeezed shut, trying not to laugh.

"Just one," Ginny repeats.

"And," Lavender falls into a fit of giggles.

"And she and Ron started fighting and she set a- a flock of _budgies_ on him when he said- oh god, Hermione, what did he say?"

Hermione is smiling now too, because it is a good memory, even though it isn't one of her finest moments. "He called me a workaholic shrew."

The entire table laughs.

"Well, it's true, isn't it?" Ernie chortles. "Only that's what we like about you, Hermione- no need for birds."

She sticks her tongue out at him and playfully shoves him away.

The warmth in her stomach is spreading out and she isn't sure if this is because of the liquor or because she finally feels like she is around friends again.

"Another round!" Demands Mallory, holding out her shot glass. The others comply.

* * *

**Wednesday, February 1st.**

The rain is throwing itself in sheets against the window of Andromeda's kitchen. Hermione sees this as a small victory, since it is finally _not _snowing. She is reading at the table, nibbling on the lemon poppyseed biscuits that Mallory made on Sunday for no reason in particular. The older witch had spent the last week aggressively trying to cheer everyone up, and much to everyone's surprise, it seemed to be working. Even Hermione's monster has been quiet.

The book she is reading is called "Devils: Unseen and Unknowable Magic". As the title suggests, it isn't particularly helpful. Indeed, fifteen chapters in and all she has learned is that there is magic that nobody, not even the authorial Eustace Scrubb, knows about. There are crumbs in her lap. There is a cold cup of tea by her right hand that she forgot about an hour ago or more. The clock behind Hermione reads 3:51. It is a dreary afternoon, and if it weren't for the book and biscuit combination, she might be feeling lonely.

She is sitting here, rather than by the fire in the next room, because she is loosely on mediwatch — there is ostensibly an important meeting somewhere out in wizarding London and she is on-call in case anything should go wrong. As such, there is a wooden crate of healing potions, salves, and bandages under her chair. Crookshanks is asleep on top of them. His right paw twitches.

The bell beside the doorframe signals someone's arrival in the back yard. Hermione looks up from her book, still chewing.

Andrei bursts through the door, carrying a badly mangled body like a bride, the head tilted inward toward his chest. The mouthful of cookie lodges itself like ash in the back of her throat. Her chair tips backward onto the floor and Crookshanks streaks for the living room.

Hermione is on her feet before she can think and the Russian lowers the body onto the floor. She realizes, now that she is closer to him, that the Russian is muttering frantically to the mangled body in a string of sounds she has no way of recognizing. She doesn't recognize the person, either, but this is lucky because it allows her to remain detached from what she is doing. She is glad when Andrei tilts the body's face away from her. He steps back, giving her space to work. She squats beside the body. It smells like burnt meat, and is strangely reminiscent of pork. "Bring that crate closer to me, and then go get Ginny," she points and commands. Her voice is even. She has seen death before, and this does not scare her anymore. Her eyes move quickly and she reads the exposed injuries as easily as if they are a story.

The body belongs to a wizard, judging by the height and the breadth of the shoulders. He is wearing the black hitwizard clothing, recognizable from the right shoulder and down. She begins to examine the damage at his head. The head appears to have sustained most of the damage. In patches, the hair has melted to the scalp over the right side and the rest of the scalp is burned, black and red and shining with blood and puss. There is a massive laceration running from the back of his left ear and widening over the base of his skull, fanning over the top of his vertebrae and exposing skull. A slow stream of blood leaks from the open wound. His neck is bent at an exaggerated angle towards the right, away from her. She swallows hard.

The crate plonks onto the floor beside her and Andrei's massive boots fall like thunder as he tears from the room.

Hermione walks around the body to look at the face of the wizard, her eyes scanning the nick taken out of the wizard's left ear. She doesn't want to roll him properly onto his back, just in case his neck is broken, but she also wants to make sure that his airway is clear for breathing. She walks back around the body and squats again by his face, looking more closely at the features still visible under the burns, the right eye is open, but she is unsure if this is a sign of consciousness or not.

The air is sucked from her lungs.

Malfoy is looking up at her through his undamaged right eye, his left eye is closed under a mass of burns that stretch from the back of his head onto his face, and up one side of his pointed nose. There is a thin slice through his mouth, extending from his left cheek down to his chin. His lips are parted slightly and she can faintly hear the sound of labored inhale, exhale around his teeth.

"Malfoy," she says and her voice sounds like gravel. "Blink if you can hear me."

She watches his good eye intently, and he blinks once slowly, deliberately.

The air reenters her lungs, inflating her like a balloon and she is moving again. "Ok," she says. "Do your best to stay awake." She tries not to think about how much pain he must be in. On the bright side, burns this bad generally don't hurt until much later, anyway, so whatever pain he's in probably stems from one of the several lacerations across his exposed skin. _Triage_, _Hermione_, she reminds herself.

Her hands are steady as she runs her fingers along his vertebrae, feeling for anything out of place. The skin is smooth and cold under her fingers. "Can you move your fingers?" she asks, making eye contact with him and then glancing down at his hands. It does not move.

She bites her lip. "Okay. Are you trying to move your fingers?" she asks, and looks back at his face.

He meets her eyes and blinks once.

"Blink once more if that is a yes."

He blinks again.

"Okay," she says, keeping her voice light on purpose, "that means you've damaged your neck or back. This isn't a big deal. We can mend that in no time, but there are other things we should take care of first, and it'll actually be easier for me if you don't move." She says as lightly as she can. Where is Andrei? Where is Ginny?

Her cheeks are heating up before the next words even leave her mouth. "I'm going to have to take off your, er, shirt, to check for damage."

She is curious despite herself. In all the years she's known him, she has never once seen Draco Malfoy without a shirt. She wonders if he's human under the fabric, or some sort of pureblood monster instead. She takes his pulse at his carotid artery. It thumps steadily against her fingers, fast and even. His eye slides sideways to follow her hands as she is fumbling with the buttons on his jacket. She has to cut the thick fabric away from his left arm, where it has fused with the skin.

"Well," she says. "The good news is that you have a pulse. Are you still awake?" she asks, and meets his gaze, which is stony. There is a ring of brown around the pupil of his right eye, like a band of rust on a gray stone. Has that always been there? He blinks again.

She returns her attention to the smooth expanse of his chest as she pulls the fabric of his shirt away from the skin. She knows the hitwizard gear is charmed to protect the wizard in question, but the left arms of the shirt has melted into skin and she can no longer tell what is charred tissue and what is cloth. Still, this burn is nothing compared to the burns over his head. "Well, you're going to be okay, Malfoy. This looks a lot worse than it actually is," she says. His eye is shut. "Malfoy?" she says again, louder this time. He doesn't respond. "Malfoy!" she shouts. "Draco!" And then, "Ennervate!" his eye opens wide, rolling toward her and his breaths come in rapid gasps.

"Draco, you have to stay awake," she says, and lays her hand against his chest, just beside the burn. She can feel the hammer of his heart against her palm. His skin is warm and smooth; pale as ivory, pale as a ghost. She glances up and sees his eye on her.

"This is going to hurt," she warns as she reaches into the crate for the burn salve. She pushes the fabric back around his shoulder as much as she can, and uses her wand to cut the rest of it away. "I know it must be very scary to not be able to move," she says as she alternates between removing melted-on fabric and applying burn paste. "But I am going to fix that for you. First, though, we've got to do something about these burns."

Where the hell is Ginny?

She finishes with the burn on his chest quickly, although she knows it's far from healed. She can't do anything else for it with the supplies she has, and so she moves up to his head. "I'm sorry your hair's gone," she says conversationally, not really even aware of what she is saying. "You do have very nice hair, you know, but I'm sure that it'll grow back in no time at all." She scrapes the blackened skin off of the burn, and begins work with the burn paste, taking care to avoid the thick gash in his head. She lays strips of torn cloth over the patches once she finishes applying the burn paste to them. "This probably doesn't feel like much now, but it'll probably hurt a lot by tomorrow morning. I'm sorry about that — we're out of pain potions, though." She grimaces apologetically and makes eye contact. He just stares back at her. _Perhaps this isn't the best topic of conversation for the moment._

"Do you remember that time I slapped you in the face? In third year?" She smiles a bit to herself and looks at his eye, just making sure he is awake. His gaze is fixed on her, unwavering, unblinking. "I'm not sorry I did that, you know. You shouldn't have been making fun of Hagrid. That was a horrible thing to do. Of course, you were a horrible child." Scrape, apply, bandage, repeat.

She is going to kill Ginny for taking her time like this.

Malfoy is still staring her, and maybe it is just her imagination, but it seems like a slightly different stare. "Oh, don't look at me like that, you know you were horrible. Or at least you should. I'm sure you've been told this at least once or twice. Actually, you still are. Horrible, I mean. Not a child." She starts in on the gash. It isn't too deep until it reaches the base of his skull. She murmurs a healing spell and runs her wand over the gash, which seals satisfyingly as she works. "There," she says. "You probably don't feel fantastic, but you'll be back to normal in a few days. Alright, I'm going to work on your neck now. I'm going to need you to stay as still as possible while I do this. Even if you feel like you can move, don't. Not until I give you the go ahead. Blink if you understand. Good. Ok."

She runs her wand, light blue at the tip over his neck, still turned grossly to one side and, sure enough, her wand glows red over his fifth cervical vertebrae. "Episkey," she says and there is a faint _snap_ and his head jerks visibly, but to his credit, Malfoy doesn't move overwise.

"Alright, Draco," she says, and looks at his unbandaged eye. "Blink three times if you are still with me."

He does.

She breathes a sigh of relief. "Good. Great." She leans back. "Try to wiggle your fingers now."

He raises his right hand, and clenches and unclenches his fingers.

"Excellent!" She crows, allowing herself a victorious smile. "I'm going to petrify you so that I can keep working on the rest of you. I'd knock you out, but we can't rule out brain damage yet, and sometimes there are other problems with burns like these, so I'm going to need you to stay awake. No- don't move. Just give me a thumbs up if that's ok."

He gives her a hesitant thumbs up and a look that says he isn't too pleased.

She ignores the glare. "Lovely," she sings. "Petrificus totalus!" and then, "Blink if you're still awake."

He blinks.

"Ok." She runs her hands over his clavicle, checking for breaks in it. Goosebumps erupt over his skin around where she touches. "Sorry about the cold hands," she says vaguely, dragging her eyes downward as she works, examining the expanse of his chest. Apart from the burns on his chest and shoulder and some bruising on his left side, he appears more or less intact. He is thin, of course, thin enough that she can see the raised ridges of his sternum, but there is more muscle on him than she had anticipated, wiry and smooth under his pale skin. There is a faint dusting of gold hair that begins around his navel and disappears under his trousers, but she refocuses her gaze on his upper body once again, chastising herself for her curiosity at a time like this.

It strikes her, suddenly, that there are no scars on his body — not one. This is confusing, since she knows — _knows —_ that he has been a mess of mangled flesh at varying points in the last couple of years, but there is no record of the damage on his skin. At first she wonders if maybe he is just that good at healing, that maybe his body's response to injury is to remove it completely, but then it occurs to her that this is probably the work of the people who have hurt him in the past; that it is their final parting shot at him — he isn't even allowed to keep a scar as proof of what he has endured.

"Sorry," Ginny sweeps in beside Hermione so quickly that Hermione starts, surprised. She hadn't even heard Ginny come in, but her wand is held lightly between her teeth as she pulls her hair back from her face. "I fell asleep in the attic. I didn't realize- I didn't think- what do you need me to do?"

Hermione looks down at Malfoy, who looks back at her without showing any new emotion on his face, but under her hand, she can feel his heartbeat has picked up markedly, and it is hammering against her palm. She looks closer at his face, and the pupil of his visible eye is wide, moving quickly back and forth. His breathing, which had been slow and even since he came in, is now coming in quick little gasps. She realizes, then, that he is terrified. His good eye has glazed over, and she knows then that the fear has nothing to do with where he is now, and who is around him now. He is somewhere else, lost in some memory that she cannot access. She doesn't know what set him off — maybe the sudden appearance of a new witch, or maybe just the stress of being locked immobile and in pain — and she resigns herself to never really knowing.

Hermione turns her gaze back towards Ginny, who is now rummaging through the wooden crate for a second container of burn paste, and Hermione is embarrassed on behalf of Draco Malfoy. This seems too personal, and she just wants to cover him up, hide him from all eyes, even her own, until whatever nightmare he is living passes. No one has any right to see him like this. She has work to do, though, and cannot stall treatment for anyone's mental health. But there is something she can do:

"Go make sure that Andrei is alright, and try to get an idea of what happened," she says to Ginny. "Malfoy's stable, I've got it from here." She throws Ginny what she hopes is a reassuring smile.

Ginny gives her a penetrating look, but stands to go find the Russian. Once her footsteps fade from the kitchen, Hermione presses her hand against Malfoy's cheek, trying to reassure him, to pull him back to her, even though she feels unbearably stupid for it. She considers, briefly, telling him that everything is alright and he's safe now, but acting so friendly to someone like Malfoy leaves a funny taste on her tongue, so instead she says, "This is the cheek I slapped, back in third year. Remember? God, you were such a git," and she begins prodding his ribs for signs of damage.

"And the best part is that Buckbeak got away. He's still alive, you know. Perfectly fine and healthy. Healthier than you, at any rate. Alright, this might hurt a bit." She points her wand at where a bruise blossoms on a broken rib. "Episkey," there is a small snap. "I think he's gone with Hagrid, although I'm not sure where. One more- Episkey."

By the time she is finished mending his broken ribs, she has told him all about what an utter ass he was for calling her a 'mudblood' in their second year in front of the entire Gryffindor quidditch team, and also thoroughly berated him for his actions as part of Umbridge's inquisitorial squad. She lifts the petrification, and sits back. "Alright, how do you feel?" she asks. She is tired, but satisfied in her work. At some point during their one-sided conversation, his gaze slid back into focus and his breathing slowed. She is a little proud of this, too.

He sits up slowly, his left hand feeling over the bandages across his shoulder, neck and head. "You really hold a grudge, don't you, Granger?" he says and although he can only move about three-quarters of his mouth, she can hear the sneer in it. "Have you been waiting for a good chance to say all of that for however many years?"

"You," she says after a moment of stunned silence, "are an asshole."

"Cleverest witch," he replies.

She gapes at him for a moment, completely flabbergasted at his sheer assholery. She doesn't know what she was expecting; not a thank you or a heartfelt apology, at any rate, but certainly not a reaction like this, either. "I cannot believe it- I just _saved your life_, and the first thing you do upon regaining normal motor control is _make fun of me?_ You are the most ungrateful, arrogant-"

"Oh good, he's up," says Ginny sounding anything but thrilled, causing them both to look up. She is leaning against the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Andrei is behind her, and his left arm is caught up in a sling. He looks more relieved that Ginny does, and tromps toward Malfoy, immediately erupting into fast Russian.

Hermione stands, wiping the remaining burn paste and blood from her hands onto the legs of her jeans.

"We've had an owl from Andromeda," Ginny continues, striding toward Hermione and holding out a roll of parchment. "We can go home now. Leave Malfoy to his own sorry self."

Hermione doesn't think she's ever gotten quite such good news in her life.

* * *

**Thursday, February 2nd. **

She is laying on her bed. Crookshanks is off somewhere and it is midday, which means that Ginny is probably doing something social. Hermione woke with a start only a moment ago when her bed began to rock. There is a lump under her chest that should not be there. At first, she thinks that she is still asleep and that this is just another nightmare, but she tries rolling onto her side and the solid lump moves slightly to position itself right under her heart again. She swallows, her throat feels dry.

"What are you?" Hermione asks into the still air. Her voice shakes. She feels like a moron for being so scared of nothing.

There is no answer. This is actually the only logical way this 'conversation' could proceed, since there is most definitely _not_ something under her bed. A spring probably snapped or something.

Still, better to try again and just be sure. "Can you speak?"

If it can, it chooses not to. But, of course, it _can't_ because it isn't real — it's only her imagination constructing false realities to deal with the very stressful boredom of being locked in a safe house until she is needed to go out and fight a war against people who want to kill her. Come to think of it, she can't remember the last time that she saw a stranger who _wasn't_ pointing a wand at her.

"Are you here to help me?"

Nothing. The lump doesn't even move. Because it is a busted spring and busted springs don't answer questions. She is losing it.

"If you can understand me, give me some sign."

Nothing.

"Anything."

Nope.

"What do you want?"

It moves. The springs in the old mattress creak as something pushes them up from underneath, pushing the bed wobbling upwards, bed frame and all. She grips the edge of the blankets as she is lifted into the air, but after a moment, the bed slams back onto the floor and the door swings open. She doesn't even think to scream.

"What the hell are you doing in here?" Ginny huffs, out of breath from running up the stairs. "What was all that banging?"

* * *

**Friday, February 3rd.**

"I am _going to continue to fight_, Remus," she informs Lupin over breakfast the next morning. Her hands are clasped on the table in front of her and her mug of tea is quickly getting cold. "I am an adult and it's foolish not to let me into battle. Even if you only want me to be there as a healer, I can do more good on the field than I can do back here."

"She's got a point, Remus," Tonks says as she slips into the seat beside Lupin and rests her hand over his. "We lose twice as many fighters by having the healthy apparate back to safe houses with the injured." Tonks smiles over at her, and Hermione smiles back.

"If we set up a field tent or something, beyond barriers, for the injured, we could accomplish more and save more lives," Hermione says next.

Lupin stares at her for a long time, and she holds her breath, lines up her next volley of arguments on her tongue. Eventually, he nods. She wonders why he put up so little fight about this, but his next statement indicates that his mind is elsewhere at the moment. "Just so you are aware, Draco will be returning to Grimmauld Place tomorrow."

* * *

**Sunday, February 5th.**

It is two nights later and Hermione cannot sleep. She hasn't felt safe in her bed since the poltergeist or whatever it was lifted it off of the floor and so her limited sleep is cut back yet again. She is heading towards the kitchen again, because that is the only place where she ever seems to find herself anymore. Crookshanks winds himself around her ankles and almost trips her down the stairs.

"Are you trying to kill me?" She grumbles at him and she pushes her hair out of her face, sweeping it over the top of her head with an exasperated swipe.

The cat has already scampered down the stairs and mewls once, plaintively.

"Crooks," she hisses, but stops with one foot suspended in the air above the third-to-last step when another sound answers the cat. It is soft — barely an audible whimper, but it is there all the same.

She draws her wand and steps carefully around the boards she knows to creak as she makes her way down the rest of the stairs. The living room at the foot of the stairs is completely dark, hidden in shadows and darker shadows and she pauses, one hand still on the railing.

She can hear Crookshanks purring in the dark and the snick of his nails on the polished wood.

_Lumos_, she thinks, and all of her practice at nonverbal magic pays off when a faint glowing starts at the tip of her wand and grows brighter as she grows more confident until her little ring of light illuminates two bare feet curled into a chest on the floor beside the fireplace mantle and she steps forward until the huddled form of Draco Malfoy is made visible in sharp chiaroscuro — all monochrome and gaunt in the pale wandlight.

She can tell at once that this is not the insufferable git who she argues with sometimes, who is confident even in the ministry's prison. This is the shadow in the ministry — the gaunt outsider in Grimmauld place as she fixes up his face. He doesn't seem to notice her standing by the staircase, or even to see Crookshanks, who is still rubbing across his shins. His eyes are glassy and far away. A muscle in his jaw works furiously, like he is chewing on something.

She wills the light brighter. "Malfoy," she whispers, unsure whether she should take a step forward or not. He does not respond.

She takes another step toward him. "Malfoy. Draco Malfoy," she tries again, a bit louder this time.

She squats to the floor across from him. She is out of arm's reach, but close enough to see that his pupils are completely dilated and his chest is rising and falling rapidly. She can hear the click click click of his teeth snapping together in his mouth.

She sucks in a deep breath, and says, very softly, "_Accio Malfoy."_

He jerks forward about half a foot, skidding across the wood. His arms flail out to either side of himself as he attempts to fight off an unseen enemy. She was right not to try to shake him on her own, then, she realizes. She wouldn't want to be caught in his flesh-seeking hands right now.

"Malfoy," she whispers again, and he seems to calm down at the sound of his own name, the trembling of his shoulders tapering slightly.

Crookshanks presses his front paws against Malfoy's heaving chest as he takes in shallow gulps of air.

"Malfoy," she tries again, and his hands come up to tentatively stroke the cat.

"Hey, Malfoy," she says again. "Are you alright?"

He blinks against the wand light but then his eyes reach her face and she can read panic and confusion in them, but also something like recognition slowly swimming to the surface. He is still shaking.

"Are you ok?" she repeats. It's a stupid question, she knows, but it's the only one that she can think to ask.

"Fine," he says, but the words come out sound like his mouth has been stuffed with cotton.

She edges closer to him. "Open your mouth," she commands.

He gives her a funny look.

She rolls her eyes. "Please," she grinds out through gritted teeth.

He obliges, and when he does she can see that his teeth are stained pink and that he has bitten clean through the tip of his tongue. She frog hops forwards on her toes so that she is right in front of him. He smells like fear and blood and something almost clean — like books, maybe. "Tilt your head up a bit more," she orders, and he does it.

She wrinkles her nose and shakes her head. "The light isn't any good here. Come on, let's go to the kitchen to get you fixed up."

She stands with a sigh, feeling her sore muscles scream in protest, and when Malfoy makes no move to join her and the rest of the bipedal organisms currently walking upright on this green earth, she reaches a hand down to help him up. "Stay with me now, Malfoy," she warns. "Or I'll hex your ears off. Don't think I won't. I owe you for that time you made my teeth gigantic right before the Yule Ball."

He mumbles something about having to turn off the light to do it, but he places his hand in hers anyway. His palm is clammy in hers, but she helps him to his feet. He still doesn't let go of her hand. She doesn't make him.

She helps him into a seat at the kitchen table and she leans over him. "Now, stick out your tongue and try to hold still, or this will never work." She commands.

Much to her surprise, he obeys without so much as a snide remark.

"Episkey," she says, and watches as the ragged skin of his tongue folds back into itself. She straightens and sighs. "How does that feel?" she asks.

He rolls his tongue around his mouth, licks his lips, and nods.

"Right, uh," she scratches her head, no longer sure what to do, "You, um, you go wash your mouth out and I'll make us both some tea."

It is a testament to the strangeness of this event that he just shuts up and does what she asks of him. When he comes back, she has two mugs of strong peppermint tea waiting for them. He raises his to her in a silent toast.

"I'm glad you've got a new set of robes. Those seem to fit better than the last ones, anyway," she nods at the new hit-wizard robes he's wearing, which actually seem more tailored to his build than what he'd been wearing until now. She takes a long sip of her tea, wondering what possessed her to try _that _as a conversation starter.

"Are you really still sore about all those things? From school?" he asks.

Hermione chokes on her tea, coughing some of it up her nose and looking at him with disbelief. He stares stonily back at her. "You were — and are still — the biggest, most bigoted asshole I've ever met." She coughs some more.

When she has finally finished spluttering, he says, "So, is that a yes or a no?"

She sighs and leans back in her chair, considering the question and the wizard who asked it. In her mind's eye, the past slides in and out of focus, at once far away and so immediately close that she can't even begin to fathom any of it. "I don't know, Malfoy. At this point, I don't really know what to think. I've got a lot of other things to worry about right now," she glances at the corner, and his eyes follow hers. Understanding lights in his eyes. "So ask me again when this is all over."

He doesn't answer, only nods once into his mug of tea.

They don't talk after that, but remain silently together at the kitchen table until the rest of the house starts to wake up, and they can hear the floorboards creaking above them as people start to move around. Lavender stumbles into the kitchen first, just after the clock in the living room chimes seven. "Morning," she yawns. "How did you both sleep?"

Hermione, who knows from years and years of experience that the first thing Lavender does upon finding another living being in the morning is relate whatever boring dreams she had in painful detail, takes this as her cue to disappear back into her own room, and to lie in bed, pretending to sleep for a few hours at least.


	18. Fires and Dragons

**Chapter 18: Fires and Dragons**

**A/N: **Look, guys- Two updates in as many weeks! I may be getting back on track with these things (don't get your hopes up, though, because I don't want to disappoint you)! To everyone who wished me well in regards to the eye debacle: Thank you so much. It's doing much better now and I am back to wearing contacts (is this advisable? Probably not. Do I care? No. Vanity, thy name is...me). In case you are wondering why I haven't answered reviews yet: I GOT ENGAGED ON SATURDAY! Also I suck. And I'm getting to it. I really wanted to make sure yall got this chapter sometime during the week, though. As always, I dedicate this chapter to Elantil, for putting up with me.

* * *

**Monday, February 6th**

Hermione pads back down the stairs. It's sometime after midnight, but she is refusing to look at a clock because she doesn't want to know precisely how late it really is. It seems almost irresponsible to be up at this hour. Crookshanks is at her heels. Her wand gives off a small and gentle light. There is a thick book tucked under her arm— something she's borrowed from Mallory— and she wonders to herself when she got to be nocturnal. It was never like this when she was in school but then again, that was back when the dark wasn't so suffocating. If she wakes up in a room dressed in shadow these days, she automatically assumes there's a monster or an empty, eyeless corpse watching her from somewhere just beyond where she can see. The fear makes her bones heavy and her mind slow, so she avoids the dark when she can.

_It's been four months_, she tells herself. Four months away from the little room with the dead air. Four months since Kingsley died. Four months since she's seen Harry and Ron. Four months since missing them has become as much a part of her as eating or breathing. Four months since she's had a good night's sleep. _Four months_, she repeats, and swipes her hair angrily back from her face.

But there's no point in chastising herself over things she can't control. She is a product of all the learning she has ever done, and these lessons will not fade in just four months. So she will read until dawn, or after that, when she can climb the stairs back to the room she shares with Ginny and be lulled into a fitful sleep by the sounds of the others moving and talking and light pouring in against her closed eyes.

The stair underneath her foot squeaks, and she scrambles into action at the sound. She raises her wand in front of her face, swings the small light from side to side, watching for death eaters or dead bodies, and moves her feet into a defensive stance. The heel of her foot lands on something soft, and Crookshanks lets out a sharp yell of pain as he scoots out from under her and into the kitchen. "Sorry, Crooks," she whispers.

She's on edge, heart pounding in her chest, and this is frustrating, too. _What would Harry do? _

_Go back to bed like a normal person_, she answers herself bitterly, and tromps down the rest of the stairs, pointedly ignoring when they creak.

The light is already on in the kitchen and so she pads toward it, her mind working furiously. The light indicates that there is someone already in the kitchen. From this distance and angle, she can't see who it is, of course, but there is only one other person in the house who is ever awake during these small hours. This is not a comforting thought; just because she knows who it probably is in the kitchen, doesn't mean she knows what she will meet when she enters the room. He has many faces; she does not know which one he will be wearing now. She rubs her thumb in a small circle against the base of her wand, takes a deep breath, and enters the kitchen.

Malfoy is facing away from her. The skin around his head is still pink from the burns and his hair is only a fine stubble across his exposed scalp. His shoulders are pulled back and his posture is perfect. As she walks into the kitchen, his head turns and she sees his face in profile, his eye turned sideways toward her. His mouth is set in an even line and he regards her where she stands in the doorway: her mismatched pajamas, the comically large book under her arm, her messy hair, and all.

From this distance, she can't see how large his pupil is, and she cannot see his hands. She does not know which version of Malfoy he is right now. "Hello, Malfoy," she says.

He does not respond, just regards her for another long moment and then turns back around, facing forward again. His head is pointed straight ahead on a rigid spine. He is stone, but she wishes he were glass, so that she could see through his skull and right into his brain, so that she could know what he is thinking. He could be anyone right now. Whoever he is, though he is not attacking her. Her bare feet slap against the cold dark wood as she walks fully into the kitchen, taking his unresponsiveness as a sign that he is safe company right now.

She walks around the table so she can sit across from him and she starts when she realizes that there are two mugs on the table. One has a peppermint tea bag in it. Both are empty. She looks from the mugs up to the man at the table. His eyes are focused straight ahead, like he is staring through her. Like she is made of glass or air, insubstantial and not there. There is meaning in everything, she knows, but she cannot see what it is in this moment. There is too much standing between her and clarity, and chief among the questions in her head is Malfoy, all sharp lines and elided statements. History and future rolled into one broken boy.

She places her book carefully on the table and picks up the mugs. "I'll make us tea," she says and her voice has that strange quality that words spoken in quiet houses sometimes adopt. Like there is importance in each syllable even when there shouldn't be. His eyes do not waver, his head does not turn, but she takes this as acquiescence.

She boils the water with a tap of her wand and pulls a chamomile teabag from the shelf for herself tonight.

"Here you go," she says and pushes the mug of peppermint tea across to him. His eyes flick down toward it, like he is startled into waking from a deep sleep.

"Thank you," he replies and his voice is clear, like he is fully present, and she wonders if he is.

"So," she begins, unsure of how she will continue. She has questions for him— so many questions— but he is a difficult person to ask, since he only answers about a third of whatever she wants to know, and only when he's in the mood to. She wonders for a moment if she's willing to risk the tentative peace Malfoy had offered with the mugs. She says, "I tried to talk to it," after a quick battle with herself. Of _course_ she will risk peace for answers. She always has.

"Devils don't talk," he answers shortly.

The bell above the stove rings, and Hermione turns to look at the back door, waiting for someone to open it. After a few long moments, though, no one comes through, and so Hermione stands, wand drawn, and walks toward the back door. The hairs on the back of her neck are standing.

"No one will come," Malfoy says from the table. "No one else knows you are here." A lazy smile drifts up the side of his face and she does not recognize him. It is not a smile that belongs on his face, it belongs to someone else. His eyes narrow into slits and she thinks of a snake, opening its mouth to swallow a mouse whole. She thinks about wolves, and teeth like knives. She thinks about Malfoy's old teeth, still shut up in the tin in her handbag in her room upstairs. Maybe she should return them, since they are rightfully his. She swallows away the strangeness of this thought and yanks open the door, looking out into the darkness beyond. She thinks she sees movement in the shadows, but she is sure that this is just a trick of the light and her eyes adjusting to the darkness. Her whole body tenses against the frigid air.

She licks her lips. "Hello?" she calls into the darkness. Her breath mists in the air before her face, curling upwards and away, the light from her wand and the kitchen pouring out onto the grass.

"Hello," Malfoy replies from the table, still watching her with that strange predatory smile.

She raises her wand into the darkness, shining light as much as she can into the corner where she might have seen movement. For one heartbeat, the light of her wand falls across a black beast, large and terrible, in the corner where the house turns, observing her with a featureless face, blank and made of shadow, but the light of her wand shines onto it more fully and it is only a large shrub that she has seen many times already and is not a monster at all. But something nags at the back of her mind. This has happened before; she has seen this same monster in the space where shadows intersect and she wonders if maybe it is there, even when it is not. She swallows hard and goes back inside, shutting the door tightly and locking it with her wand. She is shaking, and tries to tell herself that it is only from the cold.

Malfoy is watching her, the smile is gone. "You are asking for trouble," he says quietly. "Speak of the devil, and he's sure to appear." His hands are clasped around his mug of tea and his gaze is careful, cautious.

She wants to buck against this, if only because the temptation to _ask more questions_ is so strong, but she holds her tongue and drops herself like a stone into the seat across from his. Some things she just has to figure out on her own, and at least now she has a clear rule to follow or break as she wants. "Fine," she sighs, and runs a hand across her eyes.

They lapse into a long silence, and Hermione stares at the cover of her book, contemplating going somewhere else to read it. She keeps glancing back toward the locked door, like she expects the bush-shadow to burst through it and gobble her up. Like it'll huff and puff and blow the house down around her. She shakes her head and takes a long sip of her tea. It burns all the way down her throat. The pain is a distraction and therefore a relief. She coughs.

"Lavender Brown told me about her dream," Malfoy says suddenly, like he is answering a question she never asked. "You could have warned me that she was going to do that."

Hermione coughs again to cover up a laugh. "Didn't think to," she lies. "Was it interesting?" she asks, sure she already knows the answer.

"Yes," Malfoy says, although the expression on his face looks a lot like distaste. "She has very vivid dreams. Very detailed."

"Ah," Hermione replies, because she can't think of anything else to say. She knows what Lavender's dreams are like— all dramatic storylines and only sometimes making any sense to the listener. "Fascinating."

"She dreamt about the humans she has killed. There are four of them, and she dreamed that they had her on trial in the Wizengamot. Dreamt that they were alive and very, very sad. They all cried and asked her why. She couldn't answer."

Hermione looks up sharply at this, her mind flashing back to the two blank-faced teenagers, like dolls in a bed, blue eyes staring into death's first kingdom. She is no stranger to the empty bodies that are left when life leaves, and thanks God that she has never killed anyone. She does not know what it must be to face the people whose lives she has stolen, either asleep or awake. If she had nightmares like that, she might never sleep again.

"Then her dead rabbit was there and something about chocolate frogs and that's about where I stopped paying attention."

She giggles at this. "I'm sure it wasn't so bad," she says, although she isn't sure why she's defending Lavender's dreams when Hermione herself bolted from the room as soon as Lavender stumbled in.

Malfoy raises a skeptical eyebrow at her.

"She asked me about my dreams," he continues after a long period of silence.

"Oh," Hermione finds herself genuinely curious about this. She wonders what he must dream about: does he dreams about missing fingernails and fires, or does he dreams about everything he has done? Does he see the faces of the people he's killed? "What did you say?"

"Nothing," he answers, and he blinks. Hermione starts slightly at this. It is the first time that she has seen him blink tonight, although surely he has blinked before now, and she just hadn't realized it. She's tired. Reality is starting to slip. "I don't dream."

"Ever?" Hermione is surprised. Even she dreams during the few hours of sleep she manages on any given day.

He meets her gaze. There is a ring of brown around the gray of his right pupil, but his left is solid gray, webbed with lighter gray. _Partial heterochromia_, she thinks to herself, _sometimes due to genetics, but also occasionally to grievous head trauma_. She wonders which it is in this case.

"Never," he replies eventually. "Not anymore."

They lapse into silence after that. Hermione is lost in her own thoughts, wondering what it _means_ that he doesn't dream anymore and what it means for her that she does. She will not let this war change her, even as the people she knows become strangers in familiar faces.

"It's not so bad," he says eventually, conversationally. "I used to have terrible nightmares."

She nods. "I used to too, when I was little." She doesn't mention the nightmares she has now, or her sudden fear of darkness.

His head cocks slightly to one side and he considers her carefully before he speaks. "What were your nightmares, Granger? Worried about failing tests or McGonagall telling you that you got less than perfect marks on a piece of homework?"

"Sometimes," she admits grudgingly, annoyed at being known so casually by someone like him. "And then sometimes about forgetting to put on robes before going to class and getting laughed at, or forgetting to study for an exam in a class I didn't know I was taking, or I'm lost in a part of the castle— Hogwarts— that I've never seen before."

Malfoy listens and nods, looks satisfied with this answer.

"What about you, Malfoy? What did you have nightmares about?"

He smiles wistfully, like he is remembering a toy he lost when he was a child or a good day that ended badly. "A beast moving in the shadows, urging me one way or another. Showing me things I didn't want to see."

A shiver runs down her spine at the familiarity of this. She wants to ask him more about it, but he speaks first.

"I'm leaving again tomorrow."

Hermione is jarred from a normal stream of thought again. He does this to her— he leads her along a single path of conversation and then moves the road, taking it somewhere else entirely. The result is that she is never entirely sure where she is going, and she doesn't like how disorienting this is. "Where are you going?"

He shakes his head once, "I don't know. Nowhere. Everywhere. Away."

"When will you be back?"

He shrugs and spreads his hands on the table. "Sooner or later. When I have ceased to be useful."

"Good luck," she says. The sky is turning gray in the window above the sink. Dawn will be here soon. She almost wishes that they had more time to talk. Others will begin moving soon and their conversation will disappear with the darkness, like the shadow of something that was never really there.

He gives her a small smile, "Thank you, Granger. And to you as well. Good luck being stuck in this house." It's almost a sneer; it's certainly condescending.

She rolls her eyes. "Gee, thanks, Malfoy," she says sarcastically. Crookshanks jumps into her lap, and she scratches absently behind his ear.

Malfoy watches the cat for a moment. "We had a cat. When I was little."

This surprises her. For some reason, Hermione always imagined that Malfoy had spent a childhood without any animal companionship. Or human companionship. Only house elves he tortured and his horrible parents. This is a new and unanticipated development. "What happened to it?"

"The Dark Lord doesn't much care for any animals besides snakes," he says calmly, evenly. "She was killed. Nagini, the Dark Lord's familiar, ate her."

"I'm so sorry," she says and hugs Crookshanks a little closer to her chest. His purr reverberates against her ribs.

"It's alright. These things happen."

"What was her name?"

"I can't remember," Malfoy's pale eyebrows knit together as he considers the question. "But her favorite food was cheddar cheese."

Hermione opens her mouth to say that this was probably not very good for her, since as he already knows most cats cannot digest dairy, but Malfoy turns his head toward the door and her comment dies in her throat.

"Good morning, Lavender," he says as Lavender stumbles into the kitchen, her hair a messy braid down her back. "You're up early."

"I had that dream again," she mumbles as she rubs her eyes. "The one about Binky juggling chocolate frogs."

"Really?" Malfoy feigns interest, his eyebrows raised. "Fascinating. Granger was just telling me how utterly enthralling she finds your dreams."

Lavender turns to Hermione, looking slightly surprised and still mostly asleep. "Really, Hermione?"

"Oh, yes," Malfoy continues. There is something almost like a smile pulling at his cheeks, like someone just whispered something funny in his ear. He stands. "I've got to go prepare for my trip, but you really ought to tell Hermione _all about it_," he says and pulls out the chair he so recently occupied. He gestures for Lavender to sit.

"Oh, alright then," Lavender says hesitantly, and sits in the chair.

Malfoy pushes it in towards the table. "Have fun, ladies," he says, the corners of his mouth still turned up in the smallest smile Hermione has ever seen as he locks eyes with her.

"Have some fun with your friend, Granger," he murmurs as he walks behind her chair toward the doorway to the dining room.

"Asshole," she mumbles as he passes her, but Lavender is already talking and so Hermione is trapped feigning interest, nodding and smiling along to a plot she is barely trying to comprehend.

* * *

**Saturday, February 18th**

Hermione finds Mallory smoking out of an upstairs window and folds her arms across her chest to keep out the cold when she enters the room.

"Hey there," Mallory says without looking back. "I don't have any more books for you to read. You finished my last one like a week ago."

"How did you know it was me?" Hermione asks and sits down on Mallory's bed. She knows Mallory is smoking like this to keep the smell out of the house, but the entire room stinks of tar and ash anyway. Hermione wrinkles her nose.

"Auror training," she casts a sly smile back at Hermione. "I know you by your walk." She winks theatrically and sticks her head back out the window. "Seriously, though, what's up?"

_I was lonely_, she doesn't say. _Ginny and Ernie are arguing about Quidditch, Lavender is painting her nails which makes the entire living room smell like paint thinner, and Justin bolted as soon as Lavender entered the room. Malfoy has been gone for more than a week now and it gets lonely sitting by myself in the kitchen._ "I was just wondering what you were up to."

"Diligently destroying my lungs."

"Why?" Hermione asks before she can think that it might be a rude question.

Mallory only laughs. "Because everyone needs a way to blow off some steam." She flicks the cigarette stub into a mug filled with cigarette butts on the windowsill, shuts the window, and casts a quick scourgify over herself. The smell in the room lessens, but doesn't disappear entirely. "You read books, Ginny picks fights, Ernie reminisces about things, and Justin chases your cat around."

Mallory flops heavily onto the bed. "Being locked up in here is killing us all a bit, I guess."

Hermione doesn't answer. She doesn't know how to.

"Anyway, if you're bored and out of things to read, do you feel up to some dueling practice? I'm still not used to aiming yet, and I could really use the practice for whenever they let us out."

Hermione doesn't say that she doubts they'll let Mallory see a proper fight anytime in the near future, and if this ends before they're let out of this house, Hermione won't be too unhappy about it. She doesn't say this, though, because she knows that the cigarettes aren't the only thing that are keeping Mallory from losing it. She knows that the promise of battle, the knowledge that she is still an auror and still a fighter and still on the right side are what actually keep her going more often than not. The nicotine is just a nasty habit she hasn't kicked yet. "Sure," Hermione says instead, "sounds like fun."

"Speaking of dueling," Mallory hops off the bed and stretches her arms above her head, causing her spine to pop and snap, "did you really start a dueling club right under that Umbridge horror's nose? Ernie mentioned it to me yesterday."

* * *

**Monday, February 20th**

Hermione doesn't sleep well. She never sleeps well anymore, but this is so much worse than usual. Her entire body feels alive and there is something in the shadows that she is sure— _sure_— is watching her. She falls asleep sometime between daybreak and dawn and the next thing she knows, Ginny is shaking her awake and it is almost noon.

"Lupin's here. He's got a mission for us."

* * *

"We've divided people into squads based on where they live," Lupin tells them once they've gathered around the table. "Which means that the six of you are a group. I do hope that's alright." He gives them a small smile.

"Seven," says Justin, who has been quiet until now.

Everyone else looks at him.

"I beg your pardon, Justin?" Lupin looks confused.

"There are seven of us who live here," Justin presses, even as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth. "Well, not right now, obviously," he stumbles over the words, "but Malfoy lives here, too. Well, sometimes. I mean, well, you know."

"Indeed!" Ernie picks up the mantle. "What about Malfoy?"

Lupin gives the two Hufflepuffs a wider smile at their words. "Malfoy is a bit of a special circumstance, since he is useful in various situations. Sticking him with just one group wouldn't be fair to anyone. Sometimes he'll be with you lot, but sometimes he won't be. Is that alright?"

Ginny folds her arms across her chest and looks sour. Mallory's face arranges itself into a careful neutrality. Lavender shrugs. No one says anything.

Lupin takes this as a signal that it's alright to continue. "As I was saying, I've got a mission for you. It's nothing too dangerous," he adds quickly. "We've gotten word that the Death Eaters are preparing to receive a shipment of potion supplies the day after tomorrow. This will be your first, ah, solo mission, so to speak."

Ginny sucks in a sharp breath.

Something about this doesn't seem right to Hermione. The words are all right, lined up the way they are supposed to be, but as she looks around at the faces of her friends, she realizes what it is: this is too much trust to put in them so quickly. They've never run a single mission, practice, or even pick up a quidditch game together with just the six of them. As far as Hermione knows, the six of them have never been in the same spat. _Battle_, she corrects herself mentally. The six of them have never fought in the same battle. Ginny's never fought at all, but Hermione isn't going to point that out to anyone right now. This is too strange— too sudden. They are unprepared. What could Lupin possibly mean by this?

Lupin unfurls a map on the table and they crowd around him. It's a map of Liverpool Pierhead. He prods it with his wand and little lines begin squiggling across it as he points out various locations. "This is where you'll portkey in. Hermione, Ginny— you two are medical detail, so I want you to hang back here. This is where the death eaters will be picking up the shipment. This is what you will do…"

* * *

**Wednesday, February 22nd**

Hermione has a theory that she is already preparing to test when she and Ginny shrug on their healer packs and wait for the portkey they are taking to activate. It's been almost a month since she last saw combat, and in that month her monster— or devil, as Malfoy called it— has been quiet for the most part. If she does not mention it, if she keeps her temper in check, she is fairly certain that she can use her monster in combat. The only question is— how much control over its actions does she have? "Ginny," she says quietly, cinching her pack tightly about her waist.

"Hmm?" Ginny doesn't look up. She is rechecking the potions in her pack. Her hands are trembling. Her face is ashen. Her eyes are too bright. She is still underage. Why is she going into a battle at all?

"Whatever happens, stay where we're meant to," she glances around at the others. Mallory is touching up her lipstick in a hand mirror. Ernie and Justin are talking quietly. Lavender is staring out through the kitchen window twirling her wand in her fingers.

Ginny gives Hermione a hard look. "What are you planning?" she asks.

"Nothing," Hermione replies too quickly. "Only this is your first battle, so I want to be sure you know what to do."

"You'd better not try anything stupid," Ginny cautions. "Everyone is counting on us."

Ginny is carrying the weight of the entire mission on her thin shoulders. Hermione feels it, too, but she has carried it for so long now that she no longer struggles under the burden. "Just trust me, Gin," she whispers.

Ginny looks at her for a long moment, then nods once and turns back to her pack. She rechecks her potions again.

In the other room, the grandfather clock chimes nine times. "Alright. Places, everyone," Mallory says in a sing-song voice. "It's nearly showtime."

She pulls two round rocks and an empty tube of lipstick out of her pocket. Ernie grabs a rock off of her palm, and tromps back to the stove. Justin does not hesitate to put a finger on the rock laying flat against Ernie's palm. Hermione grabs the other rock, and returns to where Ginny is standing by the back door. She holds out the stone. Ginny's hand over Hermione's feels cold and clammy. Lavender and Mallory both hold onto the lipstick tube near the kitchen table.

"Just to be sure, everyone have their emergency portkeys?" Mallory asks.

They have each been given an already-activated portkey that will take them to Andromeda's if they find themselves injured and in need of immediate help. Hermione's is a rusty key wrapped in a cloth napkin in her front pocket.

"Well, if you don't have them, you're royally fucked and there's nothing I can do for you," says Mallory after a moment when none of them answer her. "Just try not to get killed."

"Real moving speech, Mal," Ginny quips, but her voice in weak when she says it. No one laughs except for Mallory.

"Ah, we'll be fine," Mallory says, giving everyone a lopsided smile. "This isn't going to be a big deal. I tell you what— if anyone gets killed, I personally promise to figure out how to raise the dead just so I can apologize to you in person."

"Grand," says Justin weakly, and then there is a tug behind Hermione's navel as she is ripped through reality.

* * *

Hermione stumbles forward a few steps as they land on the stone pier, her footfalls sounding loud in the cold, still air. The city around them, normally filled with muggle life, is dark and quiet. Her ears ache where the sounds of fast-moving cars should be. The only lights they can see are the tiny pinpricks of stars overhead and the _lumos_ that Mallory casts. Hermione has never seen the pier deserted before, and the emptiness scares her. Justin looks grimly around, like he too is wondering where all the muggles have gone, but the rest crouch low and don't seem to even notice the difference. Mallory, wand light throwing her face into grim lines and shadows, motions for them to move toward the ferry terminal building, dark and empty as a corpse.

A series of fizzle-cracks lights the windows of the building bright green from the inside, on the second floor of the terminal. The six of them drop, and after a moment when no spells are hurled toward them, they realize that they were not the targets in the first place. Green light flashes like lightning from the third story now. The fight has moved higher in the building.

The battlefield before them is a puzzle that she started two days ago when Lupin arrived and only just now is she able to see the shape of things as they truly are. Ginny's confused face is lit green beside her, tilted upward toward the sound of spells exchanged above them, her mouth a thin, pale line.

Hermione scuttles near to Mallory and whispers, "Lupin lied to us. We're not the only ones they sent in. There's at least one other team here."

Mallory turns her eye on Hermione and holds a finger to her lips, tilting her head slightly at the others. Her thin eyebrows rise on her head as if to say, 'Get it?' Mallory knew all along that this was the case.

No, Hermione _doesn't_ get it. "But...why?"

Mallory leans into Hermione before she answers, so close that Hermione feels the whisper of her breath across her ear and still has to strain to hear what she says, "The mole."

Hermione's eyes grow wide. Of course— there is a traitor somewhere among the Order or the aurors. This is why they are keeping everyone in small groups, and why there hasn't been any communication between safe houses. They're watching, testing to see where information gets compromised and telling no one enough to really jeopardize the state of the war at large. She can almost see it— in little houses all around the country, at tables like Andromeda's or in living rooms like the one at Grimmauld place, little groups huddle around Lupin as he tells them that they, '_are going in on this mission alone, with no back up.'_ She sees the faces of her old classmates, of the aurors she's patched up after battles and seen tromping through living rooms or at funerals. Grim, determined, anxious about a solo mission or chomping at the bit to see some action. They've all been set up and although Hermione understands why, it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

"Alright," Mallory says in a louder whisper to the group around them, and everyone huddles in closer, "Slight change of plans— we're a different squad's backup. Forget everything about potions. The name of the game is to clean up any enemies on the first two floors. Shoot to kill— they certainly will be. Got it? Ginny, Hermione, you're to stay here. Everyone else, follow me."

No one but Hermione so much as bats an eye at this and Lavender, Ernie and Justin follow Mallory around the side of the building and out of sight.

Ginny pulls out her wand, and begins casting protective wards. After a moment's hesitation, Hermione does the same. In a matter of moments, their field station is secure. They begin the horrible game of waiting for death to come to them. Hermione casts a warming charm to keep out the cold. The minutes drag by in an eternity of held breath and tightly clutched wands.

Above them, there is the sound of cracking glass and the witches look up as something dark hurtles toward them. They both duck and cover their heads instinctively, but the dark thing stops before it hits them, and rolls off to one side, picking up speed as it bounces off of their invisible dome. It hits the pavement with a smack. Ginny lets out a small whimper. Glass pings like snowflakes against the top of their Safe Zone and scatters in a circle around them.

"Well, at least we know the wards hold," Hermione says breathlessly as she lifts her wand and steps through the protective barrier to check the body that almost fell on top of them. Glass crunches under her feet.

It is what is left of a death eater, the mask crooked, the legs and arms splayed like a rag doll's, and blood leaking in a black pool across the stones beneath it. Gingerly, Hermione removes the mask, her wand pressed against the death eater's chest, just in case he miraculously survived the fall. It is a man, middle aged and gently lined, his pale eyes wide and glazed with death, his mouth caught in an eternal snarl, like he is still just about to say something particularly nasty. She does not recognize him. He is dead.

She stands and turns back toward Ginny. Something very like disappointment gnaws at her stomach, but she doesn't look too closely at it. The sounds of battle are clearer from above them, now that the window has been blown out, and when the scream comes, Hermione recognizes the voice. "Lavender!" she shouts and she is tearing around the corner toward the front door, her blood shushing a familiar tattoo in her ears, drowning out Ginny's calls of "Come back!" and "Hermione!"

She peels through the door, blown inward and hanging crooked against its hinges, at a run. She hardly notices that on either side of her, there is the cacophony of shattering glass like tinkling applause as a formless mass fills the room in her wake. There is a death eater on the landing of the second floor and she draws her wand, hardly seeing what it is doing as she aims and shouts "Stupefy!" He hangs in the air for a moment and then crumples to the floor.

She is in the main room then, and all around her small battles are being waged, streaks of green and yellow zig-zagging across her eyes, burning red and blue trails against her retinas. She sees Mallory first, a snarl etched in the soft lines of her face as she alternates between throwing up protective charms and hurling curses and spells out at two hooded figures in front of her. She keeps missing them. Justin and Ernie are shoulder-to-shoulder in the corner closest to her, Justin throwing up protective barriers while Ernie shouts curses in a loud, wavering voice at a dark figure before them. Hermione sees them all without really seeing any of them. Her eyes focus instantly on a body writhing on the ground, bent backwards at an odd angle and shrieking. Above Lavender is a woman who does not wear a mask, but reminds Hermione of a laughing skull more than the body broken on the pavement two stories below them.

"_Crucio_!" Shrieks Bellatrix Lestrange again, her bony face split in a too-wide smile. "Blood traitor, filthy muggle lover! _Crucio_!"

"No!" howls Hermione and throws herself across the room. She reaches Lavender in a matter of steps, "Protego!" she hollers, and Lavender goes still and silent at her feet.

Bellatrix's wild eyes turn toward Hermione then, and her mouth opens in an 'oh' of surprise and glee. Hermione would be afraid or maybe even angry, if only her concern for Lavender wasn't so overpowering. She throws up a shield charm just as Bellatrix shouts a curse that she doesn't recognize. Before she can react with a curse of her own, something blows her sideways off her feet; she rolls three times and skids to a halt on her side. She can feel the skin peel away from her arm, but she hardly notices. She is angry at the interruption. She is looking up at a very tall, dark-robed figure. She isn't sure how she missed him before, but there is no time to wonder about that now. The death eater raises his wand at her, and she raises her own, but behind her, Bellatrix shouts something first and the entire room is lit up with blinding green fire as a beast of flame rises howling from the tip of Bellatrix's wand.

Hermione isn't worried yet. She knows the countercurse, has said it over similar beasts hurled toward people she cares about, and she raises her wand. "Extin-"

"Expelliarmus," sings out Bellatrix and Hermione's wand is ripped from her hand and she is left defenseless to scramble back against the wall, to her left there is the sound of a wet sack ripping, and something splashing to the ground and she can hear Ernie yell out something somewhere behind the beast but she can barely see the full brightness of the creature that is crouching low and preparing to pounce on her, let alone anything beyond it, and she sucks in a deep breath and then it is upon her.

In retrospect, she will want to say that she tried to fight it off or that she cast the countercurse without a wand, but after this, all she will be able to recall is drowning in green light and the far-away sound of her own voice screaming. Someday, in the distant future, Ron will ask her with sad eyes if Fred was in a lot of pain when he died, pinned and devoured by a beast like this one. She will consider him for a moment and then she will lie and say, "It hurt for the first few seconds, but you know after the nerve endings burn away, it doesn't feel like much of anything." She will not mention the way she can feel her lips peeling back from her mouth and her mouth peeling back from her face and her face peeling away from her skull and with every layer peeled back a new wave of _burning_ engulfs her. Whoever said that burns only hurt until they cut through the skin obviously was never eaten alive by a giant burning beast, but she will not tell Ron this. She will not tell anyone.

And then the hot breath of the beast is gone and she is still on fire but the room is dark and she wonders if she has died, but she can hear voices under water and very far away and there is something swirling at the edge of her vision. It is a shape that is darker than the darkness around it, like a black hole, sucking in light, and it is impossibly large. Too large to be contained only in her field of vision, with horns like an ox curling up on either side of an elongated, yet perfectly round, skull. It is smeared with blood and it cocks its head to one side, watching her with the detached interest of a wide-eyed corpse, even though she cannot see eyes or even a face at all. This is the last thing she sees before the lights go out and the mercy of unconsciousness finally claims her.

* * *

When the lights come back on and Hermione blinks herself awake, the first sensation she feels is thirst. An impossible need for WATER! engulfs her completely for the first few moments that she is conscious before she even registers where she is. But the aching need fades to a dull throb and her mind begins functioning again.

She is in a comfortable bed that is not hers. There is a blank white ceiling above her, streaked with sunlight. At first she wonders where she is and how she got here, but then everything comes trickling back to her like a slow stream, like a mudslide, oozing down a hill: the fight, the beast, the monster in the shadows.

She tries to sit up, but finds that she cannot.

"Easy there," says Mallory's voice, and Hermione swivels her gaze sideways. She is in the room she shared with Ginny at Andromeda's house, and Mallory is leaning over her and has placed a restraining hand against her shoulder. There are dark circles around Mallory's eye— a combination of smudged eyeliner and exhaustion. "You took quite a hit earlier and now you need to rest."

This is a strange thing to say, Hermione thinks, since she is not in any pain. Miraculously, the Manticora seems to have done no damage at all. She tries to brush her hair out of her face, a habitual gesture, but her bandaged hand scrapes against bandaged skin and she looks to Mallory for some semblance of information.

"You don't look too bad," Mallory informs her, but won't look her in the eye when she says it. "I'm no healer, of course, but 'Dromeda says you'll be alright in a few days, only in the next couple of days, you might be a bit sore."

Hermione opens her mouth to ask about a hundred different questions, but all that comes out is a hoarse little rattle.

"Oh, and you won't be able to talk for a few days, either," Mallory continues, still not looking at her. "Your larynx got burned or something. I'm not a healer," she repeats and gives her a small apologetic smile. "But I told Andromeda I'd let her know when you wake up. She and Ted have had a busy few days. Turns out Lupin sent out a bunch of squads over the last week, all with Andromeda as the backup healer, but didn't bother to tell 'Dromeda and Ted about it first. You've been out for about eighteen hours, by the way," she adds as an afterthought as she stands.

Mallory hovers, unsure of how to proceed for a few moments, and then in a smooth gesture, she pulls Hermione's blankets up around her chin. "Gave me quite a scare there, Hermione," she mumbles, and keeps her gaze focused on tucking Hermione in. "You probably took, like, three years off of my life. If my hair starts to go gray after this, I'm coming after you."

Hermione raises one bandaged hand and pats Mallory's shoulder.

Mallory tosses her short hair and let out a high-pitched sound is still too loud and still grating, but Hermione likes it anyway. "I'm going to throw you a massive party as soon as you can tolerate booze again," she promises. "It's going to be splendid," and then she sweeps toward the door, pausing to address someone who is standing in the doorway who Hermione hadn't noticed before.

Draco Malfoy, gaunt, pale, and still mostly bald, nods once at something Mallory says and then steps into the room. Of all the people she expected to see now, he is one of the last and she eyes him warily as he approaches her bed. His boots fall heavy on the wooden floor. He is still wearing hit wizard robes. The pink sheen has finally left his exposed skin.

"Relax, Granger. I couldn't kill you even if I wanted to," he says lazily, casually. There is a large tankard in his hand with a plastic muggle straw sticking out of it. She wonders if there is acid in it and he has come to finish her off despite what he just said. "You look absolutely horrible, by the way," he adds, like an afterthought in a particularly boring conversation. "Bullstrode lied. This is definitely worse than usual, and that's saying something."

Since she cannot talk, Hermione is relegated to gesturing with her hands, and so she gives him a very rude muggle gesture even though she doesn't know if he'll understand it.

He watches her hand and then shakes his head with a small chuckle. "And it hasn't done anything for your personality, either, I see."

_Accio wand_, she thinks as forcefully as she can, and it rolls off the nightstand and into her waiting palm. She points it at him, daring him wordlessly to say something else.

"Calm down, Granger," he says although his tone does nothing to lower her rising anger. She can feel the bed sag under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, and leans toward her, holding out the tankard with the straw pointed towards her face. "Drink this."

It's a command, so she seals her lips petulantly against it, even though she is thirsty enough to consider drinking acid or whatever else he might have brought her.

Undaunted, he pokes the straw between her lips, raises an eyebrow in challenge. "Scared, Granger?" he taunts.

Too curious to stop herself, and too proud to do anything else, she takes a small sip. Water, cool and perfect, rushes into her mouth and then she is sucking greedily against the straw, one bandaged hand reaching out to hold it in place, Malfoy completely forgotten.

Once the mug has been drained completely, she leans back against her pillows, too tired to think about anything else. She locks her eyes on Malfoy, and blinks once, slowly, trying to convey gratitude without words.

If he understands, he doesn't show it. He stands and walks back out of the room without another word. She is asleep before the door even closes.

* * *

**Friday, February 24th**

When she wakes up, she thinks that she is on fire again and writhes in pain.

"Hold still," commands Andromeda, and when that doesn't work, she raises her wand and petrifies Hermione instead. "I'm only changing your bandages," the older witch grumbles. "You know how this works."

And Hermione _does_ know how this works, but Andromeda could have at least warned her. She watches Andromeda work (since she can't do anything else) and when the bandages come off, the skin underneath is black and scaly and makes Hermione think of dragons, of Norbert and watching Harry zoom around the Hungarian Horntail in her fourth year. Somehow, the notion that she is covered in dragon scales instead of skin, makes the entire process a bit more bearable. She recites dragon facts to herself in her head to keep her mind off of the pain. She names the breeds she knows in alphabetical order— _Antipodean Opaleye, Chinese Fireball, Common Welsh Green, Hebridean Black…_— and then she tells herself about the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and then she recalls every latin phrase she knows with dragons in it— _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus; Serpens, nisi serpentem comederit, non fit draco...— _and then she finds herself thinking about a different Draco altogether, one with gray eyes and unpredictable behavior, who is sometimes real and an asshole, and who is sometimes a scared and broken boy, stuck somewhere Hermione can never go, and he puzzles her.


	19. Puzzling

**Chapter 19: Puzzling**

**A/N: **This chapter is positively light and fluffy, you guys. At least by my standards, anyway. Enjoy!

Like horror? Like Dramione? Sick of waiting for me to update this thing? Then you should probably check out Elantil's "Flesh and Blood." It's pretty cool.

* * *

**Tuesday, February 28th**

It is two days before Hermione is able to limp down to the kitchen, and another two after that before she can walk without pain. She hobbles around the house, anyway. She starts by hobbling across the upstairs landing, sitting in the hall and talking to whoever walks by, and eventually makes her way downstairs, sliding one step at a time and pausing when it hurts too much to continue. From the time she wakes up, she is never idle and avoids being alone. When she is trapped in her room, the hours feel like days and night falls too quickly. She has nightmares about shadows watching her and when she wakes up in a dark room, she isn't sure if she's really awake. She misses Ginny, and wishes she were sharing a room with someone. Anyone would do at this point, just as long as she doesn't have to be alone.

When the bandages finally come off, she spends the early morning staring at her skin, still pink and shiny and edged with pale flakes that slide off against her fingers like scales. Her hair has been burnt off in clumps. What remains stands wiry and charred straight from her scalp, which leaves her skull cold in some places and too warm in others. She has no right eyebrow at all, and its absence makes her face look lopsided and heavy. Her face is strange in the mirror— and for a long moment, she stares at herself, unsure of the person staring back at her.

She has no appetite, but after a quick shower and throwing on clean clothes, she heads down to Andromeda's kitchen anyway. She is wearing a frayed pair of jeans and a red sweater Molly knitted for her several years ago, the only articles of clothing of hers that remain at Andromeda's house, but she can't bring herself to continue wearing the oversized Wimbourne Wasps t-shirt and shorts she has been wearing since she awoke— she doesn't know who they belong to, but she suspects their original owner is dead. She wonders if they belonged to Dawlish, but pushes the thought from her mind before it has a chance to poison her mood.

Mallory is painting her nails at the kitchen table and the entire kitchen stinks like it. She waggles her freshly-plucked eyebrows at Hermione when she enters.

Hermione wrinkles her nose in distaste. "Do you have to do that in here?" she asks. "Can't you go outside?"

Mallory shrugs. "It's cold out there."

Hermione slumps into a chair across from the older girl with a chunk of cheese and an apple in one hand and an enormous mug of warm tea in the other. She is determined to eat, even if her body resists. Her throat still hurts, and her voice is froggy, but at least she can talk now, and swallow without much difficulty. She takes a long sip of tea and looks more closely at her older friend.

"Mallory?" She can't keep the surprise out of her voice.

"Hm?" She doesn't even look up. The nail polish is electric purple.

"Are you wearing...extra makeup?" Mallory is normally made up, but the makeup is caked especially thick around her eye and mouth today. Even her eyepatch seems shinier than normal.

Mallory gives her a wide smile. "Oh, honey, this isn't makeup— it's war paint." Her dark eye glitters with something that Hermione suspects might be excitement.

Hermione is about to respond when a new witch trumps into the kitchen. She has dark skin and darker hair pulled into a tight, wavy ponytail. "It smells like death in here, Mal," she says by way of greeting and leans against the doorway. She's wearing simple blue robes with the phoenix armband around her left arm.

"Penelope?" Hermione asks as she suddenly recognizes the girl. She can hardly believe it. At this point, it's strange seeing people she knew in school. So far, no one has looked exactly like they did in school— there are new scars, different hairstyles, a haunted look at the edges of the eyes— but the bones are the same, like the war has only taken what it could carry and left the rest intact.

Penelope Clearwater looks down at Hermione. She is thinner than Hermione remembered; her robes hang loose around her shoulders, and her cheekbones look sharp enough to cut glass. "Hello, Hermione. Nice to see you again." She smiles, still radiant, her almond eyes narrowing softly.

They've only really spoken once before— after Madame Pomfrey un-petrified them both when Hermione was a second year and Penelope was a sixth year. Other than that, they've never really exchanged more than passing pleasantries in hallways. Penelope is— or at least was, back in school— Percy's girlfriend, and so Hermione is a bit embarrassed that she never really made more of an effort to get to know the other girl. She wonders how Percy is doing, and feels a pang of guilt that she hasn't made more of an effort to keep in touch with the family other than Ginny. She misses Ron.

"Where's Andromeda?" Mallory asks as she blows on her nails and looks up at Penelope. The bottle of polish has mysteriously vanished from the table.

Penelope shrugs. "She'll be here. Where's the rest of your team?"

Mallory sighs. "Back at our own personal undisclosed location. Shame we're not allowed to talk about where we're stationed. You'd _love_ where we've been staying. Lots of history. Anyway, we've got time still. They aren't showing up until around eleven. Why don't you have a seat, I can make you a cup of tea. Have you had breakfast? I can whip something up for you."

Hermione just stares, her mouth open slightly. She has never heard Mallory offer to so much as get anyone a cup of water. Whenever she has cooked anything in the past, it has been at her own whims and discretion— never, not once, for a specific person.

Penelope smiles. "Breakfast would be great, actually, Mal. You're always so sweet."

Hermione might very well have stepped into an alternate dimension, and so before things can get even weirder, she chugs the rest of her tea and stands. "I'm going upstairs. To, uh, read," but neither girl is paying her much attention. She dumps her empty mug in the sink, puts the cheese away, and climbs toward her room with her apple, offhandedly wondering if there are any books in this house that she hasn't read already.

* * *

About an hour later, Hermione is lying on her bed, re-reading one of Andromeda's potions books, when there is a knock at her door.

"Come in," she says, and looks up as Mallory enters, followed by Lavender, Ginny, and Penelope.

"'Mione!" Lavender pushes to the front and throws her arms so tightly around Hermione that the air is knocked out of her lungs. She is crying.

"Hi, Lavender," she gasps, awkwardly patting Lavender's back. She doesn't bother mentioning how _damned annoying_ she generally finds that nickname, mostly because Lavender is squeezing her so tightly that Hermione is having a hard enough time just getting enough air into her lungs.

"You-you saved me," Lavender hiccups against Hermione's shoulder, "With Bellatrix and, oh, Merlin, Hermione, this is all my fault! I'm so sorry!"

Hermione throws a _help me_ look to Ginny who immediately rushes over to help extricate Hermione from Lavender's weepy embrace. "It's really fine," Hermione says, rubbing her neck. "Really, don't mention it. Really. Oh please stop crying. Everything's ok now." Although it isn't ok. Even now they are all holding their breath, waiting for something that won't come any time soon. The future hangs above them like an axe and they will either escape or perish and they have no way of knowing which it's going to be. Hermione forces a smile at Lavender anyway.

Lavender has dissolved into hiccuping sobs in Ginny's arms. Still in the doorway, Mallory rolls her eyes. Beside her, Penelope looks like she's holding in a laugh with some difficulty.

"Right, well, we're going to throw you a party," Mallory announces, gently pushing Lavender and Ginny to one side and sitting on the bed opposite Hermione.

"How's Crookshanks?" Hermione asks Ginny.

"Fine," Ginny replies, patting the top of Lavender's head. "He seemed kind of lost without you, but Justin started feeding him just about everything in the house. I think he's getting a bit fat, but he seems happier now. He still sleeps on your bed in the mornings, though. Oh— what was that curse you used on the death eater?"

"What death eater?"

"The one you splattered all over the wall, of course. The only one anyone got before they disapparated. Tall guy, black robes, in tiny little chunks. Justin was ill when he saw it, but I want to know what curse that was."

Hermione feels like she is going to vomit and her hands feel too warm. She's never killed anyone. She _hasn't. _

She is saved from answering when Mallory says, "About this party," loud enough to be heard over Ginny's words and Lavender's continued snuffles. "It's going to be tomorrow evening and I've invited everyone I know."

"Why?" Hermione asks before Ginny can say anything else.

Mallory gives her a scandalized look. "Because you're up and about, of course! And we're officially no longer locked in our safehouse! I thought that would be reason enough to celebrate!"

"Don't fight her on this," Ginny mumbles to Hermione. "This is all she's been talking about since you woke up."

From the doorway, Andromeda clears her throat to announce her arrival.

"Excellent!" Mallory claps her hands and gestures for Andromeda to come in. Andromeda looks more than a little bit uncomfortable.

"What's going on now?" Hermione asks warily.

"We're speeding up the healing process," Andromeda says at exactly the same moment Mallory says, "We're fixing your hair," and Ginny says, "Moral support."

* * *

Four hours later, Hermione's skin has lost the peeled sheen of healing burns. She once again has a head of wild, curly hair that falls halfway down her back, two full eyebrows, and a normal voice. She is utterly exhausted.

"Are we done now?" she asks tentatively.

"Almost." Penelope smiles apologetically at her. Throughout the long, torturous hours of hair re-growing charms and wasted burn paste and a wretched-tasting voice potion, Penelope had been the most reassuring presence, explaining every wand wave and incantation while the others merely threw every beautifying charm at her they knew.

"Dress robes!" sings out Lavender, and pulls out Hermione's beaded bag.

Hermione blanches. "Have you been going through my things?" She thinks about Malfoy's teeth in their little box and about the memories in their little vials.

"Of course not," Lavender huffs indignantly. "If we had, we'd have already picked what you're going to wear and we'd have left this bag at home, but none of us would go through your stuff. What do you think we are, a pack of nifflers?"

Hermione smiles, relaxing. "Alright, I think I've got something nice enough for this."

She tries on the dress she wore to Bill and Fleur's wedding almost a year ago. It doesn't fit perfectly anymore— extra fabric sags where she has lost weight at her hips and chest, and her clavicle is exposed from the hollow of her throat to the spines of her shoulders. The war has taken pounds off of her frame. She's never considered herself a girl who puts much stock in appearances, but as she looks at herself in the full-length bathroom mirror, she finds herself with an inexplicably strong urge to cry and curl up in bed.

"Nothing that a well-placed shrinking charm won't fix," Lavender says, putting a warm hand on her shoulders and steering her away from the mirror before Hermione can think too hard about her own appearance. "And you're in luck! I am particularly good at altering clothes."

"Lovely," crows Mallory when the dress finally hugs all of Hermione's curves and no longer sags anywhere.

Andromeda leaves first to go prepare dinner. Penelope leaves next, and Mallory goes to walk her out, which leaves Ginny, Lavender, and Hermione alone in the room together.

"I'm excited about tomorrow," Lavender says, a faint blush on her cheeks.

"Of course you are," says Ginny, leaning back against her bed with one of Hermione's books in her hands. She flips through the pages, not looking for anything in particular.

"Well, think about it— it'll be the first time we've seen any wizards in weeks."

"And what are Justin and Ernie?" Ginny asks, closing the book and raising an eyebrow at Lavender. "Chopped liver?" She is smiling.

"And Malfoy," adds Hermione.

"Oh, you know what I mean." Lavender waggles her eyebrows at them suggestively.

"Not interested," says Ginny flatly. "And what about Ron?"

Lavender sighs heavily. "He's been gone for months, and I was probably just a one-off for him."

"Oh?" Hermione says before she can stop herself. It bothers her that they are talking so blatantly about something she is not supposed to know about. She wonders what Ron would say if he were here now. _But Ron isn't here now_, she reminds herself angrily.

Lavender's eyes open wide and she looks at Hermione in panic. "Ron and I-" she begins, hesitantly, "Once, before he and Harry left. You don't still fancy him, do you, Hermione?" she asks.

"No I don't," Hermione says at once. "In fact I don't fancy anyone right now." But that doesn't mean that she wants to talk about it with Lavender and Ginny.

"Well, perfect!" Lavender says, giving Hermione a shaky smile.

The three of them are quiet for a short while, and then Lavender asks, "Do you think I was just a… just a one-time thing for him?" Her cheeks are bright red and she talks to her knees.

This is the sort of situation where Hermione thinks she is supposed to say _of course not_, and pat Lavender reassuringly on the back or something. That is certainly what Parvati would do, if she were here right now, but Hermione is _not_ Parvati Patil and never wants to be. Hermione is driven by logic and rational thought and so she counsels them before she answers. "I don't know." She recalls how Ron avoided Lavender for weeks before they broke up the first time, and suddenly she wonders if maybe Harry and Ron's sudden departure might have had something to do with Ron's desire to avoid conflict with witches. "He isn't here to ask, but there's a chance that they left so suddenly because Ron is no good at conflict."

Lavender looks hurt for a second, and her eyes are shining when she says, "He fights with you and Harry."

"Yeah, well," Hermione smiles a bit, "Harry and I are his best friends. I don't think I really count as a witch at this point."

Lavender gives Hermione a shaky smile.

"And either way," Hermione continues, her voice growing louder as she grows more confident in what she is saying, "However he considered your, er, dalliance, shouldn't determine how you act in his absence. Even if he was serious about you before he left, he didn't say anything about it and it's illogical to assume motivation without evidence. You are a strong, independent woman, Lavender Brown, and if you want to find a nice wizard to have relations with at tomorrow's party, then you certainly should. You may find deep emotional connection, but barring that you'll probably have fun and blow off some steam. If Ron or anyone else ever begrudges you that, then they aren't worth your time in the first place. In this scenario, it's easier to ask forgiveness than permission."

Ginny and Lavender are looking at her like she just sprouted an extra head. "What?" she demands.

Ginny just stares at her, mouth slightly open.

"Only," Lavender says slowly, "Only I think you just told me to get laid."

Hermione shrugs, "It can be very good for emotional and physical health. More importantly, though, if the only thing stopping you from sleeping with someone is worrying about what Ron would think, then there's really no good reason not to. Besides, you only live once, right?"

* * *

**Wednesday, March 1st**

That evening, the first floor of Andromeda's house is filled with people, the majority of whom Hermione doesn't recognize. Most wear the phoenix armband over muggle or wizard clothing, but some wear auror or hit wizard dress robes. Molly and Andromeda have filled the kitchen with delicious smelling foods and Mallory has set up an ersatz bar in the living room. She and Penelope are both dressed like muggle bartenders in black vests and white button-down shirts, pouring firewhiskey and mixing cocktails, with matching grins on their faces. Hermione and Ginny spend the first hour of the party drinking strange blended drinks that Mallory hands them.

"I call this Pumpkin Juice Poison!" she announces, handing the younger witches fizzing orange goblets.

Half an hour later: "This is Felix Felicis!"

"Pretty sure that's already the name of a drink, Mal," Penelope says and elbows Mallory in the side.

"Alright, then this one is Finest Felix Felicis, Fuck the Frauds!"

And twenty minutes after that: "This is just rum, but it's very good. Here. Have some."

Lavender sidles up to them after that. Her hair is pin-straight and she is wearing a muddle-style navy blue dress that is so short Hermione knows Lavender is taking her advice. "That guy over there keeps looking over at you. His squad just got in from a mission about an hour ago and they're staying with Andromeda for a few days," she whispers conspiratorially to Hermione. "I told him you were available," she says and she winks.

At this point, Hermione is so drunk that she cannot quite tell which 'guy over there' Lavender is talking about, but it would obviously be rude not go over and introduce herself. So she leaves Ginny with Lavender and Mallory presses a final glass into her hand before she goes. "It's just pumpkin juice. Can't have you too drunk and not thinking for yourself."

A young auror meets her halfway across the room. "Hi," he says, and smiles shyly down at her.

"Hello!" She says cheerily, "As an auror and as a wizard, what is your personal feeling on the wizarding world's current stance on elfish rights and well-being?"

"What?" replies the auror, looking confused. "It's really loud in here. I don't think I heard you correctly. Do you want to go in the other room to talk for a bit?"

She follows him into the dining room, where they sit shoulder-to-shoulder in the only seats not taken. He tells her his full name and she laughs. "Your last name is Jameson," she explains. "That a muggle liquor! It's not very good, though."

About an hour later, Lavender wanders in, sees her and Jameson still talking, gives her a hasty thumbs up, and walks out again.

Two hours after that, the party is starting to die down and Andromeda turns the lights back up and Hermione notices that Jameson has light brown hair and grey eyes. She likes his eyes— they remind her of something she can't quite call to mind. This is why she doesn't hex him when his hand grazes up the length of her jeans and he kisses her quickly on the cheek. She turns to him, surprised by the gesture, and he blushes and looks away, pulling his hand back with a mumbled apology, but she is warm and the liquor thumps through her and this is the first male attention she has gotten in a long time and she'd forgotten just how _nice_ it feels to be looked at like that. "No," she says with a shy smile. "That's alright. I don't mind."

And then his mouth is pressed against hers, warm and too wet. It is a badly aimed and badly timed kiss, but she doesn't care. She has spent so much time surrounded by death that she has forgotten how nice it is to touch the living. She giggles against his mouth and presses her body against his.

* * *

**Thursday, March 2nd**

She wakes up the next morning in a bed that doesn't smell like hers, with something warm and too big to be Crookshanks pressed against her back. It takes her exactly thirteen seconds to remember why she is naked in someone else's room, and then four full minutes after that to extract herself from Jameson's reaching arms to step away from the bed.

She bends to pick up her bra and has it on before she realizes that Jameson is watching her sleepily.

"Good morning," she says, and her voice is hoarse. This is when she realizes that she doesn't remember Jameson's first name, and instead of making this apparent by greeting him now by his surname, she just bends to slip her panties on over her legs.

"Morning," he replies, and his voice sounds almost as bad as hers. "Last night," he starts.

"Was fun," she supplies. She doesn't really want to know what he was going to say. She silently prays that what they did doesn't mean anything to him, because in the morning light, his eyes are too wide set and his nose curves upwards in a way that only reminds her of Pansy Parkinson. "Thanks for um, yeah. It was fun." She pulls on her dress and runs her hands through her hair. She makes a mental note to grab a contraception potion, although she is fairly certain that she made him cast the charm last night, too.

He nods, speechless. She finds her shoes together on the floor next to her wand.

"Well, I've got a lot to do today, so I'll see you later." She walks slowly backwards towards the door.

He nods again.

She leaves, shutting the door quietly behind herself and sighs once, wondering if she should shower before or after she gets the potion. She doesn't regret sleeping with Jameson— she has done as much with Ron and it was about as much fun in those instances as it was last night. She isn't particularly embarrassed about it, either. Many people, she knows, take this kind of comfort on occasion, and she admits to herself that it was nice to have someone to take her mind off of everything for a little while. She hadn't realized how starved for physical contact she was until she was kissing Jameson. _Sloppily_, she mentally adds, and groans.

No, the problem is that Hermione Jean Granger, who has the uncanny ability to imbue anything with meaning and significance, cannot find any real meaning in having sex with Jameson. Which is actually rather liberating. And Jameson would move on with his squad in a few days, and that will be the end of that. Maybe she will even sleep with him again if the opportunity presents itself sometime before he leaves. It had been rather cathartic.

The sound of a throat being cleared pulls her out of her thoughts. She looks up to see Draco Malfoy standing a few feet in front of her.

"Do you mind? You're blocking the hallway." He knows where she was, or at least can guess accurately based on her appearance and the way she is shutting the door labeled 'T. Jameson' as quietly as she can at about five in the morning. He doesn't say anything, but his eyes darken in a way that makes her wonder if he is angry about something.

She doesn't think that he has any reason to be angry with her, so she stands a bit taller and asks, "When did you get back?" as lightly as she can.

Judging by his appearance, it wasn't long ago. There are dark rings around his eyes, and his cheek and mouth are smeared with someone else's blood. He'll need the shower before her, she figures, since his head is half-covered with dirt.

"Recently," he replies evenly.

The sound of his voice makes her feel like she has done something wrong, which of course makes no sense. She raises her chin a bit higher. "Have you reported to Andromeda or Lupin yet?"

He scowls in response, but doesn't answer.

She goggles. He is definitely angry. She doesn't think he has any reason to be mad at her and she doesn't know why she doesn't like him knowing where she was, so she lashes out, verbally striking where she hopes it will hurt. "Was anyone else with you, or do you still not play well with others?"

"I play well with others, but obviously not as well as you do, Granger. The company you keep." He clicks his tongue and shakes his head at her, smirking at his own innuendo.

She is furious. She doesn't care what he thinks about her, of course, and she won't regret sleeping with Jameson in the slightest, even with Malfoy saying things like _that_. Without bothering with further thought, she slaps him hard across the cheek.

His face turns sideways with the force of the blow, and his eyes widen slightly at its suddenness. Slowly, he turns back toward her, his expression hardened into a sneer she knows very well.

She reaches a hand back to slap him again. Her cheeks are on fire and the blood is pounding fast behind her eyes. He catches her wrist and steps forward, closing the space between them until she can feel the warmth radiating off of his skin. She is trapped between the wall and Malfoy.

"How many people have you struck like that?" He asks. His cheek is blushing pink from the slap.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," she hisses back.

His grip on her wrist loosens. The fury in his eyes is dark, solid, and very present.

She yanks her hand free and slaps him again. Harder than before, but his face doesn't turn a second time.

He sucks in air through his teeth and grabs her wrists again, gentler than before. "Please answer me. How many have you slapped?"

Her eyes narrow. "Gee, let me think. Only one person is disrespectful, infuriating, bigoted, and _nasty_ enough to deserve it."

"So only me?"

"Why do you care?"

Shock shows on his face, for half a second, and then something lighter than shock that she can't recognize, and finally it settles into its distinctive sneer. "I don't care, obviously. I was just—" but Jameson opens his door at that moment. He is dressed now, but still looking disheveled in the same auror uniform he was wearing last night.

"Is everything alright?" he asks. "I heard shouting."

Malfoy releases her wrist and steps back. "Everything is perfectly fine, Thomas," he says. The sneer is gone from his face, replaced with a blank look, which he turns to Jameson.

_Thomas_, Hermione mentally notes.

Malfoy shoulders past her without touching her, and Jameson says, "Well, I'm going back to bed, if you'd like to—"

"I'm going to shower," she says loudly, cutting him off before he can finish making his completely unappealing offer. It is suddenly unbearably cold in the hallway, and she wants nothing more than a long hot shower and to think about this most recent altercation with Malfoy. His behavior puzzles her, and Hermione has never met with a puzzle she couldn't solve. "I'll see you later, Jameson."

* * *

Hermione spends the next five hours avoiding everyone by staying locked in her own room with a book. Someone knocks on her door around ten o'clock and Jameson calls out her name, but she ignores him and pretends that she isn't there.

When she hears Mallory's voice on the landing, she pokes her head out, looking hastily back and forth to be sure that Jameson (and Malfoy) are nowhere to be seen.

"Morning, Hermione," Mallory yawns, winces at the morning sun filtering in from the window behind Hermione's head. "I don't think I've ever been so angry about a sunny day," she grumbles, massaging her temple. Her hair is sticking to her face, limp and lifeless. She is not wearing her eyepatch, and the exposed eyelid is sutured shut and seems to sag inward toward her face.

"Can we go back to Grimmauld place today?" Hermione asks quickly.

Mallory closes her good eye and puts a hand over it, blocking out the light, and then she blanches, a look of sudden and complete horror on her face. "Hermione get away from that!" Her voice shakes. Her wand is in her hand and it is pointed at Hermione and she opens her good eye, and then she pauses. "Fuck," she says after a moment.

"What?" Hermione's heart is pounding in her chest. "What is it?"

"I thought I saw a...never mind." Mallory runs a hand through her hair and turns away from Hermione. Her voice is thick.

"What did you think you saw?" The question is out before Hermione can stop it.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. It was nothing."

* * *

When they tromp into the kitchen, Hermione's belongings in a sack and Mallory with her backpack thrown over her shoulder, Hermione sees Ted Tonks for the first time in months. He is seated quietly at the table as his wife and daughter have a very loud discussion. Andromeda's shoulders are pulled back and she is wearing a sneer to match Narcissa Malfoy's, standing opposite Tonks, whose hair is bright black, sticking straight up from her head, and whose eyes are flashing red and dangerous. Tonks is very pregnant, but somehow her increased size only makes her fury seem larger.

"Don't talk to my husband like that!" Tonks' voice is so loud that it reverberates against the plates and cups lined along the counter. She gestures angrily at the table, and Hermione is startled to see not only Ted, but also Lupin listening to the goings on. Lupin looks more tired than usual, and Hermione thinks back to the last full moon and forward to the next one. They are two weeks from either, and so it must be something else than has him looking so withered. He fades into the background.

Ted is looking interested, his eyebrows knit with worry, like he isn't used to hearing his family fight like this or like he doesn't know whose side to be on. This, for some reason, annoys her. Even Hermione has heard Andromeda and Tonks fight before. These blowouts happen at least once a month and the least Ted could do is say goodbye to her and Mallory. As if on command, Ted's eyes slide from the wall to her face and remain there. He doesn't blink—just stares at her. She waves tentatively at him. Just ahead, Mallory opens the door quietly.

"Then do not speak nonsense simply because he is present, you sycophant." Andromeda gestures imperiously at Lupin. Her voice is soft, dangerous. Where Tonks screams, Andromeda whispers. Hermione doesn't know which is worse. "You are making a fool of yourself over love."

Lupin says, "I don't think that's really the issue at hand here," but either the witches don't hear him or they don't pay any attention to him.

"I'm not," counters Tonks. "I would agree whether he were here or not. And even if I didn't, it isn't my call to make and it isn't yours, either, _mother_." The way she says 'mother' sounds like a plate hurled against a wall.

"Stop being so dramatic, Nymphadora. You are embarrassing yourself with these hysterics. Allowing a _known death eater_ to suggest a plan is different from extracting information, which your husband should realize. If he is so interested in saving his _death eater friends_, why hasn't he mentioned it before now?"

"I don't know!" Tonks thunders. "I don't bloody know, but neither do you! That's my point!"

"I know that even if this utterly moronic 'mission' succeeds, we will be no closer to ending this war than we are right now. What information could _prisoners_ possibly offer us?"

"Who cares?! We can't very well leave them where they are!"

Hermione feels something on her wrist. Mallory is tugging her toward the open door. "Come on," she murmurs, "let's just be off. Best leave them to it."

Ted's eyes follow them all the way out of the back door.

* * *

**Saturday, March 4th**

"Either stop sighing, or just tell me what's bothering you," Mallory says flatly. They are sitting on the front porch of Grimmauld Place. It is the first warm-ish day they've had in months and although they are both bundled in their warmest cloaks, they are soaking in the sunlight. Mallory is back to chain smoking, but it doesn't seem to be doing anything for her mood at the moment.

"It's Malfoy." Hermione says this like it is a grand confession of great evil, because that is how it seems to her. "I can't figure him out." She sighs again.

"Well," Mallory takes an appreciative drag on her cigarette. The tip glows like a stoplight. "Why do you want to figure him out so badly?"

"He's a puzzle," she answers so quickly that it sounds rehearsed, even though it's not.

"You know, I don't think you're giving this enough thought."

The idea that Hermione isn't giving something enough thought is so absurd that she can't think of a good way to respond to it. Never mind that the idea is doubly preposterous because she has thought of precious little else since their meeting in the hallway two days ago. "Yes I am."

Her answer doesn't matter, though, because Mallory just lights up another cigarette with the butt of the previous one and continues, "Everyone is a puzzle. I'm a puzzle, you're a puzzle, our good friend Lavender Brown is a puzzle."

Hermione snorts at this.

"Yes, even Lavender acts in mysterious ways. Sometimes. When no one else is watching. Probably. But you understand what I mean. We're surrounded by interesting people who lie or kill or keep secrets. Everyone's a puzzle, but the only one you really seem bent on figuring out is Draco Malfoy. Why? And don't just say he's a puzzle again, because that means you're just not thinking about the question. So, what is it about him that is so damn interesting?"

Hermione shrugs and thinks about this. She fiddles with the hem of her cloak.

"Shared history, I guess, and how much he's changed since school. I've had to spend a lot of time around him for the past few months."

Mallory shakes her head again. "Then why not Ernie or Justin? They've changed twice as much as Malfoy, I'd be willing to bet. When I first met Justin, I thought he'd wet himself from the sheer terror of having a wand pointed at him."

"But I've been sort of friends with Ernie and Justin since school. They were both in Dumbledore's Army with us."

"Ah." Mallory nods. "I didn't want to be rude and ask him. You know, 'Hey, Justin, did you participate in 'Harry Potter's Super Secret Fight the Dark Lord' Club in school, or were you not cool enough to be invited?"

"I'm surprised Ernie hasn't mentioned it himself already," Hermione mumbles into her jeans. She pulls her knees up against her chest, on the chair.

"He has, but I'm pretty sure he never mentioned Justin. Maybe he has and I've just never paid enough attention to him. I can only really focus on what he's saying for so long. Anyway, my point is that you are the smartest person I know, Hermione, so I'm curious: What on earth makes a deranged ex death eater so interesting to you? Maybe I'm missing something important."

She doesn't know what to say to this because the truth is, she doesn't have a good reason to care so much about what Malfoy says or does or thinks. _He's a puzzle_, she repeats to herself, but she also thinks that the relationship between Lavender and Ron is a puzzle and she thinks that the way only Lupin knows what all the different groups are doing at a given time is a puzzle, and she thinks more than anything that her personal monster is a puzzle, but none of those puzzles are as interesting as Malfoy. The micro-expressions she sometimes sees, the ghost of a mirth around the edges of his mouth when no one else is looking, the deep tracts of sadness in his silences, the red smile in war. All of these are things that she finds almost inexplicably fascinating and, now that her interest has been brought so squarely into view, she finds herself having to answer the question posed so casually by her friend:

Why does she, Hermione Granger, think that Draco Malfoy is especially interesting?

The answer comes easily enough— because he is clever and cunning and he tells her more of the truth than just about anyone else, and because she cannot figure out what he wants with her. Maybe this isn't good enough to tell Mallory, who will poke holes in her argument faster than you could say "wrong," but it is good enough to tell herself for now.

"I think it's going to storm," Mallory says, staring out over the wide field stretched before them.

Hermione stares out at the angry gray clouds gathering along the horizon, and she nods.


	20. The Wait

**A/N:** Reviews are wonderful. I've gone on record saying that reviews keep me writing this story and that without them, I would have no reason to publish anything on this site. Now let's talk about content. Praise and constructive criticism are great, but destructive criticism or even a simple "I don't like it" are not (because you aren't really SAYING anything- you're just shouting your opinion into a void that really could not give any fewer shits. You aren't changing any minds). Please remember that authors are people too. Particularly fanfiction writers, who don't get paid or reimbursed for their work in any way. We are not writing for your sexual gratification. We are not writing to appeal to your personal sensibilities. Quite frankly, unless you know us personally and have discussed it with us, we are not writing this for you, personally, where you are right now. We are writing because this is simply what we do, and if we do not feel appreciated for it, we will gladly present our work elsewhere, where it will be better appreciated. "This sux," "I don't buy it," "Eh," "This is OoC," or "Kill urself" (all things I've actually gotten on this story) are really stupid things to tell anyone, and particularly hurtful when the writer in question has worked hard to deliver something without expecting anything in return. At the end of the day, we don't care about your opinion, just how your opinion makes us feel. I know good writers who have left this site because of hurtful reviews. I don't know a single writer who has ever gone, "Oh, this anon tells me that Hermione is out of character. I better clean up my act! Thanks, anon!" If you don't like it, leave. To everyone who has left kind and constructive reviews on this: Thank you. I was considering quitting this site (again) because of a slurry of bad reviews, but you made me feel appreciated. Also...two chapters until that bonus content! What up!

**Chapter 20: The Wait**

* * *

**Saturday, March 11th**

The six of them spend seven days locked together in Grimmauld Place. It's less painful than it used to be, now that they all know why they're stuck in one place.

"But who could the spy be?" Lavender asks.

"Not one of us, is for sure," replies Ernie.

"Well, obviously, Ernie," Mallory scoffs and grins. "If it was, then that mission would have gone much worse. You saw how surprised they were when we burst in. The look on Bellatrix's face — gonna be Patronus fuel for _years._"

They train together every day — throwing spells at each other through the house and out in the back yard. Hermione is very careful during these play-fights.

"War games," Mallory explains. "It's part of auror training, too. We'll split into two teams. Each team has a flag and the goal is to capture the other team's flag. Stun if you see members of the other team, but let's try and keep it friendly. Ginny, Hermione — You'll be the team healers. Your job is to un-stun your teammates. Ernie and I are team captains. Justin, you're with me and Lavender, you're with Ernie."

Hermione and Mallory teach everyone to repel the Ignis Manticora curse.

In the evenings, Ernie, Justin, and Ginny soar around the small back yard on brooms, tossing a quaffle back and forth. Lavender and Mallory sit on the porch, watching them and sharing a pack of cigarettes. Hermione sometimes joins them with a book, her legs tucked up underneath her, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather.

When Ginny asks again what curse Hermione used on the death eater at the Pier, Hermione shrugs and says, "I don't think that was me. Maybe Bellatrix tried something else and he got in the way." Ginny doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't press the issue further. Hermione is grateful for this. Out of the corner of her eye, something glides between the shadows. It's a distortion of the light — like a heat haze above pavement in the summer — a glimmer of something that doesn't belong, and then it is gone again and Hermione is left wondering whether it was ever really there at all.

* * *

****Sunday, March 12th****

"Lupin's sent us an owl," says Mallory, coming into the living room. Lavender follows choose behind her, looking tense. Ginny and Justin are playing some made up game that involves two wands, a deck of cards, and a lot of patience. Ernie is asleep on the couch. Hermione is curled in her usual chair, re-reading Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. Crookshanks is asleep on her lap.

"Is there going to be a mission soon?" Ginny's eyes are shining with a light that breaks Hermione's heart. It's the look of hope, like she thinks something big is going to happen that's going to change things. Ernie snorts awake. Lavender and Justin look up, with interest and narrowed eyes, respectively. Hermione closes her book around her finger. Crookshanks opens one orange eye, looks around, and closes it again.

"He wants to have a meeting here."

"When?" Lavender asks, looking at the mess around them; at the dirty mugs and cups and plates littered around the living room; Hermione's piles of books beside her chair; the mud stains on the carpet beneath them. Hermione knows Lavender well enough by now to understand that she is thinking about all of the picking up they're going to have to do if anyone else is going to see this place. It looks too much like half a dozen teenage layabouts live here. No one will take them seriously if it's this messy where they live.

"Tomorrow," Mallory says, holding the letter out to Ernie, who scans it quickly and passes it on to Justin.

"Well," Ernie sits up with a groan like an old man, "let's get to it, then. This place won't clean itself."

"We really should keep this place looking nicer for Kreacher," Hermione adds thoughtfully. "He won't want to come back to a filthy house."

"He's a house elf," Lavender rolls her eyes, "he _loves_ a filthy house. Gives him something to do. I do wish he was here now."

Ginny grimaces, "You clearly have never met Kreacher."

"Can we get rid of the troll leg?" Justin asks hopefully. "Or those curtains in the second-floor study?"

"Sorry," Mallory shakes her head even though she's smiling. "Not our house. We can't actually change anything about it."

* * *

**Monday, March 13th**

Two hours after they finish cleaning the ground floor (every other floor still looks horrible) the snap of apparition sounds out so many times on the front porch that it reminds Hermione of popcorn popping. The bell above the stove in the kitchen rings constantly for five minutes, at which point Ginny takes it off the wall and tosses it in a drawer near the oven.

Aurors, order members, and hit wizards pour into the kitchen in a steady stream. It is more crowded than this house has been for months, like a zoo or a party. Hermione considers escaping to her bedroom just to feel like she can breathe again. As she is eyeing the stairs longingly, she notices Lupin, looking tired but determined, and Tonks is standing beside him, one hand in his and the other resting on her stomach. Hermione makes a mental note to ask when she is due. It can't be long now, if she looks like that.

A white-blonde head at the edge of the room catches her attention. Malfoy is standing between Andrei and a very tall woman she doesn't recognize. All three of them are in ministry-issued hit wizard gear. The Russian leans toward Malfoy and the tall woman, and he says something she can't hear. She's never been very good at reading lips, so she has no idea what he says, but the woman smiles and tosses her long blonde hair over one shoulder. Malfoy turns his face toward the Russian and says something back, low and quick, and both the Russian and the woman laugh, but Malfoy's face remains perfectly blank.

She takes a step toward the stairs, trying to move slowly so as not to be noticed.

Malfoy's head snaps toward her like she just smacked a gong over his head. Her eyes lock with his for a moment, and she is pinned under his cold grey gaze. The room and all the voices between them seem to melt away, and it is only Hermione and Malfoy, two pairs of eyes locked in a silent battle without reason or win condition.

Then the moment is gone and his eyes are scanning the rest of the room. He looks like he hasn't even seen her. Maybe, she realizes, he hasn't. Or he has and she just doesn't matter. She slides back across the room, and immediately takes up in conversation with Ginny and Lavender, who are arguing very quietly over how much perfume Lavender is wearing.

* * *

Half an hour later, three dozen witches and wizards are stuffed into the dining room. The table is pushed back against the wall and chairs have been conjured out of thin air. It is the largest room in the house, but it is cramped and uncomfortably warm with the heat of too many bodies in a small space. Hermione is sandwiched between Ernie and Mallory against the wall, and they are listening to the three aurors in the chairs immediately in front of them talk. They are discussing battle tactics and Hermione is doing her best to keep up, but they are throwing nouns around that she doesn't recognize and she isn't sure if they are maneuvers or names.

Ernie is chewing on his lip and Mallory looks bored, which Hermione knows means that she is listening intently. Malfoy is in a corner, among a knot of hit wizards and looking like marble. She still doesn't know why he is here, or why he seems to fit in so well with those self-assured looking fighters. They observe the room in a tight huddle, eyeing exits and the others like they are all in on some very important secret. She is jealous that they seem to like him so well, although she isn't sure that she has any right to be.

Gawain Robards pushes his way to the far wall and magically sticks a giant floorplan of a very grand estate to the wall. He is younger than Dawlish was, although not by much. He has the look of a man who was very good-looking when he was younger, and still carries himself with a confidence that Hermione rarely sees. His nose is slightly crooked, like it had been broken and reset too many times without magic, and his sharp brown eyes flick across the room. His hair is dark and wavy, streaked with gray. He runs a hand through his hair, and it remains sticking up slightly. He presses the tip of his wand against his throat and his lips move around the word _sonorus_, although she can't hear him above the hum of too many voices at once.

"Alright, people," his voice booms. "Settle down, settle down. Thank you. That didn't take much. I thank you for that. Anyway, we're all here for assignments for the Bristol Party. And everyone pay attention because this place is built like a bloody maze. The bloke who built this place was paranoid about intruders, it seems."

_Well this is news,_ thinks Hermione and she shuffles through the chronicles of her memory, trying to think of any time anyone has mentioned anything even remotely like this in the last few weeks, but she can't come up with anything. If it's a "party" then it's something big. "Party" is the auror equivalent of "really big spat" and she has no idea why she's part of this meeting. The word reminds her of Dawlish and she waits for a lump to rise in her throat, but one doesn't come.

"Woodley, Malfoy, Zolnerowich, take your group and go left here to secure the interior." Robards jabs a pointer against the floorplan, and Hermione barely has time to register the information before he keeps talking. He rattles off other names she doesn't know — Polanski's group is to take Johnson and secure the roof, Smith and Gore to guard the portkey location, and Samuels' group is taking the west entrance. Robards is going in on the north with — oh, forget it. She'll never remember all of these proper nouns, so she looks around the room, trying to match names to the faces she can recognize.

"Secure the first floor before the second wave." He pulls out a second sheet of paper, and refers to it. "Chang, Williamson, Moraine, Jackman, and Padma Patil — is she here yet? Ah, yes. Are you Parvarti or Padma?"

"Parvati," she calls from the edge of the room. She's lost weight since Hermione last saw her — her cheeks are hollowed out like a skeleton and her eyes are sunken into her head. She is wearing healer's robes with the Order's logo printed in the corner. "Padma's shift doesn't end for another hour yet. She and Oliver will be here as soon as they can."

He squints at her, as if trying to figure out which twin she really is. Then he seems to give up. "Ok, anyway, you're second wave. Follow behind my group. You'll watch the East door and alert the others if we're attacked..."

Immediately behind Hermione, a wizard who she assumes must be Williamson, curses softly under his breath and turns to the witch next to him. "Why am I stuck on babysitting duty?" he complains.

"...take Hartman, Adams, and Parvati Patil. Cover the north entrance. If you don't get word before twenty zero-zero…"

The witch shushes Williamson.

"...Lastly, Bulstrode take your group and watch the west entrance. Whichever team finds the prize first and gets him out gets a bottle of Ogden's Finest on me."

Hermione wonders if alcohol is really the best motivation for a group like this. It seems like it would encourage bad coping mechanisms. There are hoots and cheers from the aurors and hit wizards, and even some order members.

"And what if it's your group that gets him, Robards?" someone calls out.

Robards smiles around at the others, "Then I guess I'll just have to share with everyone."

There is more laughter, but before the meeting can be derailed completely, Robards says, "Alright, now that's only if the prize is _alive_ and actually who we're looking for. If you think you've got him, but aren't sure — you know the drill: stun and run."

"How will we get a positive ID on him?" someone asks.

Hermione marvels at the fact that no one is raising their hand to talk.

"Bulstrode, Malfoy, Smith, Johnson, both Patils and Wood can get a positive ID on him. That's nearly one in every group, so bring your potential prize to one of them. Stand up, you lot, so we can get a good look at who to ask if we've got him."

On Hermione's left, Mallory raises her hand. Several others step forward, and Malfoy peels himself lazily off of the wall. "Anything you lot want to let us know about our prize?"

Mallory clears her throat, which gets everyone's attention. She crosses her arms over her chest. "You've all seen the pictures, but Blaise Zabini's about six feet tall and he's left handed. He has no idea we're coming and he might not come willingly at first. If he doesn't, just tell him that Milly's in America. If he still doesn't listen, yeah, stun him. It'll be easier than trying to convince him to come on his own. He's stubborn like that. His mother is still working against us, so even if you've think you've got him, be careful."

"Good point," Robards gives her a tight-lipped smile. "But we have on good authority that Madame Zabini won't be an issue — she's on her honeymoon right now, supposedly, in France. But Bulstrode's right. Everyone — it'll be difficult to really be sure we have him until it's all said and done. Best let someone who knows him check. Right, so any questions?"

In her lap, Hermione curls her hand into a fist. This is the size of her heart — small and insignificant and the only thing that is keeping her alive. She loosens and tenses her hand at a steady rhythm. This is her heartbeat. This is what pumps blood through her body. This is the difference between life and death. This is what it is. This is all it is.

"There will be a distraction at four in the afternoon and they will go in at four-fifteen. Once we're there, portkeys can be activated until eight, but not after. If you're still there after eight, well, you're on your own to get back. We've got wards set up so you won't be able to apparate from the site back to our safe houses, so find a middle ground and get back from there."

* * *

After the meeting, the visitors leave in small groups and tight clusters. Some faces are drawn in excitement, some are tight with anxiety, some just look tired. In half an hour, the only people left in the house are Ginny, Lavender, Ernie, Justin, Mallory, Hermione and Malfoy.

"Welcome back, sir!" Ernie claps Malfoy on the shoulder. "I take it you'll be staying with us for a few days, eh?"

Malfoy nods silently.

"Congratulations," snaps Mallory. "Now can the the two of you _please_ help the rest of us vanish these chairs?"

The mission is in five days.

* * *

**Wednesday, March 15th**

Hermione can't shake the feeling that she is being watched everywhere she goes, so she wanders around the house. She can't sit still for long, or the prickle of paranoia becomes too much to stand. She spends a long night alone in the kitchen, a mug of peppermint tea growing cold at the empty seat across the table from her. Malfoy never shows up. In the cold predawn gray, she gives up, climbs the stairs, and goes to bed.

She sleeps in fits and half-hour increments, waking with a start when she feels a tug on her hair or a yank on her wrist. The fifth time she is pinched awake by something, she wanders downstairs and finds herself in the kitchen where Ernie and Justin are arguing about how to cook pancakes.

They ask Hermione if she can make them.

"You're only asking me to cook because I'm a girl," she accuses harshly with narrowed eyes. This probably isn't entirely the case, but the lack of sleep is making her irritable.

"Well, I mean, er," Ernie blusters, while Justin just nods energetically.

She mentally congratulates herself for not hexing their bits off, and manages to keep most of the venom out of her voice when she says, "As a matter of fact, I _don't _cook. Go ask Mallory or Ginny if you want a girl to do it so badly." If she is honest, she _can_ cook — she's no Top Chef but she can handle pancakes — she chooses not to in this case simply out of principle. They can make their own stupid pancakes if they think all women will always bend over backwards to cook their meals. She's not going to feed into a misogynist hegemony that has oppressed witches for generations. The time has come to—

"Granger," drawls Malfoy as he slides into the seat across from her at the table.

She jumps despite herself at his sudden entrance. "Malfoy," she returns, more breathlessly than she would have liked. she doesn't know what to say to him now. Their last interaction still sits heavy in her mind.

"Troubled by things that go bump in the night?" he asks, and the way he says it raises her anger almost at once, but his eyes flick to one side when he speaks like he is looking for a monster and suddenly she wonders how much he knows and how much he can guess by her disheveled appearance. "Or maybe your hair has finally started to strangle you."

"Oh, no. I was just surprised to see that they didn't take you out with the rest of the trash this morning." She snipes back. "I suppose it's fair that you're here, since Mallory's been trained to deal with torture — but I suppose you're still a bit out of most people's range of tolerance, aren't you?"

His lips thin, and she wonders if maybe she shouldn't have mentioned torture around him, but he shoots back, "A bit long-winded today, Granger. What are you overcompensating for?"

"Why would you possibly think—"

"Leave her alone, Malfoy." Justin comes up to the table, his arms folded across his chest as he stands behind Hermione in a way that she might accidentally mistake for protectiveness. There is flour in his hair and a smear of something that she hopes is chocolate across his left cheek. "Lots of people can't cook."

The mission is in three days.

* * *

**Thursday, March 16th**

She doesn't bother making Malfoy a cup of tea tonight, and she isn't surprised when he doesn't show up. _Maybe he's sleeping like a normal person_, she thinks bitterly to herself. She could go looking for him. His room is on the third floor, beside Justin's, and she knows that there is a good chance that he is there, but she is too proud and, given the content of their last few conversations, she isn't sure that she wants to see him, anyway.

She sighs and rests her head on her hands. She misses their midnight tea parties, and she isn't sure that she likes this new development.

* * *

Hermione finds herself being shaken awake. Mallory is sitting on the edge of her bed. There is screaming coming from somewhere nearby, and Hermione struggles to pull herself from the nightmare long enough to find her wand. They are being attacked — they must be— and where is her wand? She has to—

"Hermione, for the love of Merlin, stop screaming!" Mallory shouts, and slaps her hard across the cheek.

She inhales sharply as her head snaps sideways and her eyes snap open. As she takes a breath in, she begins to choke and the screaming stops. This is when she realizes that the noise which sounded so close was coming from her mouth.

"I-I-I-" she chokes out. Her cheek stings and tingles like pins and needles. Tears swim in her eyes. She can't even remember what she was dreaming about, but the sheets around her are soaked through with sweat and her hands are clawed so tightly into the blankets that her fingers ache.

Mallory has her in a tight hug before she even realizes what is happening. "Shh," she is soothing. "It was just a dream. It was only a dream. You're safe here. You're safe."

She rocks Hermione back and forth and eventually Hermione's sobs become hiccuping sniffles and she regains enough composure to look over Mallory's soft and rounded shoulder. Her eyes catch on a figure in the doorway and, after a terse nod, Draco Malfoy slips back out into the hallway and vanishes from view.

The mission is in two days.

* * *

**Friday, March 17th**

Hermione is at the top of the stairs, one hand on the railing and one foot raised, hesitating, unsure whether or not she wants to begin the descent into the kitchen. She counts the steps shrinking away from her, twenty-two, and thinks about how much it would hurt to fall down them. If she closes her eyes and lets herself topple forward, will something catch her? She considers the blank face watching like a black hole, distorted by the green flames of the Manticore, shimmering like something under water. She wonders if those too-long hands would close around her wrist to stop her falling down the stairs. The stairs stretch and wobble as she stares at them, like an accordion extending or a mouth widening into a smile, like a welcome sign or going home.

She shakes her head, scrunching her eyes shut. She's tired, obviously. The monster has never shown any indication of trying to help. She doesn't think it's capable of it; only destruction.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickle and she can feel eyes tracing along the ridge of her spine. _It's nothing_, she tells herself. _It's always nothing_. It's the monster trying to rattle her and she isn't going to give in to it. She isn't going to let it know that it's winning. She isn't going to turn around. She isn't going to look. Resolutely, she slams her foot down on the top step. It groans in protest. She stomps on the next step so hard that her knee buckles under its force and the entire staircase shudders. She doesn't care, though, and plows her foot down the next step and the next and all the way down to the kitchen where she will find Justin and Ginny playing their made-up game and Ernie absent-mindedly stroking Crookshanks as he watches.

In the darkness at the top of the stairs, obscured by shadow, Draco Malfoy watches Hermione storm away from him. There is something clenched in his right hand, something he has yet to use. He runs his tongue along his teeth, licks his lips, and turns away from the staircase.

The mission is tomorrow.

* * *

**Saturday, March 18th**

Andrei came for Malfoy early in the morning, while Hermione was still asleep. Ginny tells her as much when she stumbles into the kitchen just past noon. There's a guilty squirm in the pit of her stomach. She didn't tell Malfoy goodbye or good luck.

The six who remain are all in the kitchen, waiting for their portkey to activate. For the rest of her life, when Hermione thinks about this war, this is the first image that will come to mind: Mallory is bent over a map of the Zabini estate, muttering to herself. Her lips are bright red and her hair is slicked back from her face. She is wearing her auror robes with the blue Phoenix armband pinned across her right bicep. She chews delicately on her bottom lip as her eyes trace hallways and rooms, all pretense of not paying attention or caring abandoned. Ernie and Justin are standing shoulder to shoulder, facing the back yard and framed by the window. Ernie is wearing black robes, Justin is wearing a brown muggle sweater and jeans. There is an easy dissonance in their appearances, like two jagged points worn smooth with time, opposite and somehow exactly the same. Maybe it's their posture, or the way their heads lean together, caught in some private conversation. Hermione cannot see their faces. Lavender is seated at the table across from Mallory and her map. Her face is a carefully arranged calm. She isn't wearing makeup. Her pale eyes are fixed on a point somewhere between where she sits and the back door. Her arms are folded across her black robes and the sunset lights up her hair like a halo, stained orange and gold. Ginny is leaning against the wall. She has finally given up on rummaging through her pack, checking again and again for her supplies, and the bag rests easily between her boots. The only movement is the motes of dust dancing in the sunbeams and the only sound comes from the grandfather clock in the next room, slowly ticking them closer to the inevitable future. The room is filled with the setting sun, dousing everything in gold light. To Hermione, it looks like a moment preserved in amber, caught for all time and endless and perfectly complete.

The grandfather clock chimes six times in the other room, and the moment leaves the room like a sigh. The sun slips lower in the sky, leaving the room in cold, blue shadows. Ernie shifts from one foot to another. Ginny chews on her fingernails. Mallory rolls up the floorplans and runs a hand over her hair. "You have the portkey, right, Hermione?"

"Of course," Hermione says quickly, placing a hand over the lump in her pocket. It will be their way home. It will be their way out. She has to be careful with it.

Mallory lets out a sharp breath through her nose. "Ok, then. Everyone, gather 'round here." She pulls out a beat up muggle baseball cap. Ernie and Justin lurch forward. Ginny swings her pack onto her back and Hermione does the same. Lavender stands and deliberately pushes her chair in before she walks around the table toward Mallory. "We've got to stick together," Mallory reminds them.

"You've only said that about a dozen times already, Mal," Ginny snipes.

"And maybe it'll stick this time." Mallory's eyes dart across to Hermione. "I don't want a repeat of last time. We've got to do better. We've got to _be_ better."

Hermione squirms at Mallory's wide-eyed meaning. No rushing into danger. No coming to the rescue. Stick to the plan.

"It's nearly time," Ernie says, and the six of them lapse into silence. Everyone puts a finger on the portkey. Mallory's nails are bright red and sharp like a cat's. Ginny's nails are bitten down to the quick. Lavender's nails still have chipped blue nail polish dotting them from Hermione's party. Ernie's hands are plump and square, while Justin's are slim, delicate and feminine. Hermione's hand reminds her of her mother's hand and homesickness strikes her like a punch in the stomach, so strong that it could bend her double, so strong that it could blow the walls down, if she let it. She bites the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood.

The seconds tick by, slowly, like they are trapped in molasses, and then, at long last and much too soon, there is a tug behind her navel.


	21. Iron and the Devil

**A/N:** I'm not dead, I'm just too busy. Here's a small one because you've been so patient.

**Chapter 21: Iron and the Devil**

* * *

**Saturday, March 18th**

They hit the ground and begin to run, ducking low to stay hidden among the trees. They don't speak so they don't give away their position even as they move, and they need what breath they can muster to propel themselves faster. It doesn't even occur to Hermione to say so much as a word to the others. She's never read anything about the stomach-in-your-lungs feeling of forcing your feet to direct you towards war even as your brain shouts about what a horrible idea this is. For some reason, books tend to leave that part out. She remembers reading that someone — some muggle author or other — once said that "War is Hell." She doesn't know if this is true or not, but she doesn't have much time to think about it once they burst into the clearing.

The mansion is beautiful — old and brick and covered in ivy and looking like something out of a Jane Austen novel. The scent of rose bushes is carried towards them on the soft frozen breeze, but the house is at least one hundred yards from the edge of the wood, all sloping, pristine snow. Hermione hates the snow in that moment; thinks that it is horrible and hideous, not because of how it looks, but because it means that they will be running in the open, exposed and never moving fast enough.

They push ahead even faster once they are out of the cover of the trees. Ginny is in the lead, Hermione watches her first-aid pack bounce from side to side as she crosses the frozen lawn — kicking up snow and sprinting beside Ernie, whose wand is drawn, but not aimed anywhere. Mallory follows, her eyes and wand trained on the windows above them. She is holding tightly onto Hermione's wrist, half-dragging her along because Hermione is panting and her legs feel like they are on fire and the snow is too deep for her to run well and it is like running in a dream or a nightmare and she doesn't think she can make it and she doesn't know where Justin and Lavender are but she can't hear them behind her and she can't turn around and now is not the time to be worrying about something like this but the air is cold as it rushes into her lungs and she is choking on-

A spell burns red across her retinas. Mallory throws up a shield charm just in time, but the blast from the magic still knocks them half a foot to the side, their boots sliding through thick snow, looking for purchase. Hermione can feel cold wet water sliding into her sock over the top of her boot.

They run faster.

By the grace of god or the devil, they make it to the western entrance to the mansion — the door is hanging sideways off the hinges already — a sure sign that the Western Lead Group — Malfoy's group — already made it in.

They are to remain in the entryway as guards to keep the enemy out. If any enemy shows up, that is. Hermione presses a hand against her pocket, double-checking that their exit portkey is still there. Hermione's watch reads 6:16. They have just under two hours.

"Positions," snaps Mallory, all iron and orders. "Justin, Lavender—watch the door. Ernie, Hermione— help me secure this — would you call this a foyer or a hallway? Whatever. Let's just make sure we're in the clear and help me set the wards. Quick reminder: we've got until eight to activate the port keys. Nobody forget that, or else you're fucked sideways to next Tuesday. Let's go."

Hermione shrugs the pack off and feels immediately lighter. She drops it beside Ginny's, since the younger witch is already setting up the medical station. Hermione draws her wand and trots after Ernie and Mallory, even though her sides still burn from running. She catches up with them about fifteen feet into the dark corridor, and Mallory holds out a hand to press Hermione flat against the cold stone wall. She can see Ernie now in the light cast from Mallory's very faint _Lumos_, his eyes wide and shining. There is a thin sheen of sweat across his cheeks. He meets Hermione's gaze but doesn't smile.

The three of them remain like that for a few minutes, all straining to hear something; some sound of battle or shouts of triumph from either side, but the passageway is eerily silent. _Like a tomb_, Hermione thinks before she can stop herself, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise.

They edge forward a bit further, taking the foyer one tentative step at a time. Hermione crab walks behind Mallory and Ernie keeps pace with them on the opposite wall. After painfully long minutes, they reach their destination. The hallway they followed leads to a round, open room, three different corridors forking out in different directions like yawning black mouths. To the left of the archway they walked through to enter the central room, they find their first portrait, but it has been so badly torn that Hermione can no longer tell what it was a painting of. This is good — they were meant to disable all paintings, photographs, and portraits upon entering the hall, just as an added precaution to keep reinforcements from showing up to help the enemy.

Mallory reaches out and tenderly touches the frayed scraps of cloth still hanging from the frame.

"It must have been the lead team," Hermione suggests.

"But they were just supposed to get through here and leave the portraits for us. Ernie, watch my back," Mallory hisses, and points her wand at the frame, murmuring words that Hermione doesn't know. The frame glows a light green for an instant, and then the color fades back into shadow. "No," Mallory turns toward Hermione. "This wasn't done with magic."

From the center archway rumbles a massive crashing sound. It echoes around the empty room and floods their ears with high, angry clanging. Ernie and Hermione turn toward the hallway where the sound originated, their wand drawn in clenched fists.

"Ernie, cast now!" Mallory is already setting her own charms.

Ernie fumbles for a moment, and then something white shoots from the tip of his wand and streaks into the darkness, the light fading around the corner up ahead. Hermione murmurs "_Protego Totalum" _into the dark.

They sit in silence for what feels like forever. Hermione is leaning against the wall, hugging her arms across her chest to keep herself warm. The cold that followed them inside has seeped into her bones and she doesn't think that she will ever be warm again. Her watch reads 6:35. From the hallway behind them, they hear a series of loud bangs and Lavender shouting, so the three of them take turns casting protective wards around their hallway and dash back to the western entrance.

The door rattles on its newly mended hinges, and Lavender and Justin both have their wands trained on it. From the crack under the door, Hermione can make out the shadows of shoes close behind the wood and she crouches down and fires spell after spell at the feet and some of them make contact and some of them don't, but the barriers around the door hold fast and the death eaters can't get to them. After a few more dodged curses, the death eaters stop trying to get in that way.

The sounds come next in the form of boots clattering down the corridor, echoing and reverberating off the walls all around them and confusing everyone. All wands are drawn, but they have to wait in order to make sure that they're attacking the right people. They hold their breaths as a patronus pelts down the hallway they are occupying, and stops before them. It comes to a halt in front of Mallory— it's a monkey, tail curved in an S behind its small, fuzzy body. "Auror Hartman and company trapped fighting death eaters near west exit. Send help if possible," says a soft woman's voice.

"Ernie, let's move," Mallory barks out, and then the two of them are pelting back down the hallway. Hermione and Lavender stand shoulder to shoulder, watching them go, wands drawn and trained into the shadows.

A painfully long time passes. Hermione watches the minutes on her watch tick 6:41, 6:48, 6:55, 7:03...

They hear the smack of fast-running feet before they see Mallory and Ernie return, supporting a figure between them, and followed by two aurors Hermione doesn't know. "They lost Patil," Mallory chokes out between gulps of air, "But got Zabini."

Zabini looks thin and worn out. He is taller than Hermione remembers him and his jawline a little firmer, but other than that, he is the same as the graceful, quiet boy from the Slug Club in her sixth year. His eyes and cheekbones are angled and sharp — they remind her of a cat or a fox — and his lips are full enough to curl into an easy sneer or a sensual pout. His eyes flick nervously from face to face, like he's looking for someone familiar. Even now, he is still much too good looking to be allowed. She remembers, when she was younger, envying the dark evenness of his skin and the symmetry of his features. _He takes after his mother_, everyone has always said. Yeah, well, so does Hermione, but no one ever mentions _that_ with hushed awe.

There is a deep gash through his left eyebrow and Hermione fishes a bandage out of her pack and says, "Press this to it. I'll clear it up once the bleeding stops." He takes the herbed cloth and holds it obediently to his head and then she goes to attend to the two aurors. Something isn't right. It feels off. 7:07.

"Ernie and I are going to see if we can find Patil. Justin, Lavender— come with us. Hermione— you're in charge. Everyone else, listen to her."

Hermione nods as the four of them take off down the corridor again. 7:08.

Hermione tends to one of the aurors while Ginny tends to the other. The injuries are superficial — sustained from minor curses or grazes as worse ones flew by. A shadow moves behind Zabini, and for one crazy moment, she thinks that there is someone against the wall, hanging limply above him, pointing down at him and laughing. She catches a glimpse of blank eyes and a wide, grinning mouth as she whips toward Zabini, who just gives her a blank look. No recognition. No malice. No laughter. He is slumped against the wall. No one is above him. There is nothing out of the ordinary, and although she manages to shake the strange apparition, she can't shake the feeling that something just isn't right — if only she could figure out what it was.

She glances at Zabini again. He is exactly where she left him, leaning against the wall, his left arm draped across his knees and his right hand still pressing the poultice to his face.

And then it clicks.

"Stupefy!" She shouts, her wand whipped out and trained on Zabini.

Even as she stuns him, all the other wands are pointed at her. Ginny looks at her with wide, fearful eyes. The aurors don't even seem bothered. They raise their wands towards her heart and-

"He isn't right handed!" She screams, her voice hoarse with adrenaline. "This isn't him!"

Zabini is bound, even though the aurors give her strange, penetrating looks.

Ernie and Mallory race back down the hall, Justin and Lavender close behind. Lavender is crying.

Hermione doesn't even need to ask why. As soon as they stop running, Ernie leans against a wall and vomits and when he straightens and wipes his sleeve across his mouth, there are tears in his eyes. Hermione looks to Mallory for guidance, but the auror just shakes her head. Better not to know, but Hermione has never been good at accepting not-knowing as a decent state of being, and so she whispers, "What happened to her?"

"She was alive when we got there," Mallory whispers back. "But there was nothing we could do." Her mouth a thin, pale line. She looks like she's going to be sick, but she swallows and looks away from Hermione. She clears her throat. "I know you were in the same year, but we really need to keep our heads on straight. Why is Zabini bound?"

"He was right-handed," Hermione explains.

Mallory blanches, wheeling back towards her, and then nods, regaining her composure. "I didn't have a chance to ask him any questions. Everything happened too fast. We'll wait to see if anyone else needs help getting out of here, then we'll head back ourselves."

As soon as the words leave her mouth, a second patronus bounds down the hallway. "We've got Zabini, but we're trapped near the North exit. Send help if you can," says the Border Collie in Oliver Wood's voice.

Mallory lets out a long string of profanities and then she is leading Lavender, Justin, and Ernie back down the hall once more. Hermione checks her watch. 7:24.

7:33.

"Ginny," Hermione says, her voice low and tense, as she digs into her pocket for a small lumpy object wrapped in cloth, "take the portkey. I'm going to find the others."

"What?" Ginny scrambles to her feet, her eyes wide. The fake Zabini and the two aurors watch them. "No, that's stupid! What if you get lost?"

"Then I'll wait until they lift the anti-apparition wards and I'll disapparate," Hermione mumbles. "But I don't think any of the others are wearing a watch, so they might not know how late it's gotten. I've got to try to find them."

"You can't apparate into the safe houses from here," Ginny protests.

"I'll jump around first," Hermione's words are low and sharp.

"Take the portkey with you, then."

"You _can't_ apparate, Ginny. You don't know how to," Hermione points out, her voice hardening. She didn't expect a fight on this, and the more time she spends arguing with Ginny, the less likely it is that she'll find the others in time. "We're wasting time. Please."

Ginny looks like she's going to argue some more, but thinks better of it at the last second. She nods once and holds out her hand.

"Thanks," Hermione says, pressing the port key into her friend's palm.

"Good luck," Ginny replies.

Hermione turns and takes off down the dark hallway.

* * *

Twenty minutes later and she is still running through dark halls, turning at random. She pauses when she runs past a slashed portrait hanging crooked on the wall. She is fairly certain that she's passed this same portrait at least twice already. She's running in circles. Pausing to catch her breath, she calls to mind the floorplan that Robards showed them during their meeting, but it feels like it was a lifetime ago, and she can't place herself on it. It is 7:58. Her heart sinks into her boots. Even if she knew how to get back to Ginny, she won't have time. She is alone.

She doesn't hear them approach— doesn't see them, either— but suddenly she is being blown backwards. Her spine collides with a wall but she keeps going, landing heavily on a rubble-studded floor and skidding for a few feet. She can feel the skin along her left arm and hand tear free against the wooden boards before she finally stops moving. She scrambles to her feet. Her ears are ringing and she can feel something warm dripping down the left side of her neck. She's damaged her eardrum. She knows because there is no sound in her left ear and her head feels uneven, like she's off balance somehow just by standing up.

Through the haze of settling debris, there is a wand pointed at her, and she dives and rolls to the left without even thinking about it and she doesn't stop until she is behind the broken wall. Tenderly, she scoots up until her back is against the jagged stone, and takes a deep, calming breath in through her nose, looking around.

She is in a kitchen, which looks remarkably unharmed, save for the rubble and a bloody smear where she landed. She can hear vague booming sounds from the other room, but they sound so far away that if she closes her eyes, she can pretend that they aren't there at all.

She pokes her face around the corner, aims, and shouts, "Stupefy!" before ducking back behind the wall. She knows that this is the time to be aiming to kill, but there are already the sparks and flashes of a wand fight and she cannot make out anything beyond shapes moving in the rubble. "Stupefy!" she calls again. And then she listens.

Through her good ear, she can hear shouts and the bang of spells heading away from her. Through her left, she can hear something that sounds like laughter, or brittle bones rustling over dried grass. The sound is very close, quiet and loud all at once. She is confused at first, because the sound comes as if through cotton and she cannot even hear her own breathing behind it. _He is coming_, the voice laughs and it is a death rattle and a scream of pain. Her right hand shakes as she whirls her wand to her left, to her right, but there is no one in the kitchen with her. _He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!_

Someone is running at her, and without thinking, she shouts "Impedimenta!" and the figure crashes to the ground. She rushes over to it and pulls the hood back on a face she doesn't recognize, snarling at her even while frozen. It is a man, somewhere around Lupin's age, from the looks of it. He has stubble on his round chin and watery blue eyes. His nose is small and flat. He is, overall, an ugly fellow, she has no trouble admitting, and one that the world will be better off without. He is a death eater. He is a killer. He would kill her without batting an eye. He would kill all of her friends. He may have already killed her friends. If she does not kill him, he will persist in trying to kill her and everyone she loves until he succeeds. She places the tip of her wand over where his heart should be, and her hands are slick with sweat. She likes to think that they do not shake. _What would Harry do?_

She knows the words. She has practiced saying them over and over again but she has never taken a life before. What will it feel like? Will anything change? She has to do this. She knows she does. Now. She has to do it now.

_He is coming_! the voice in her left ear whispers and shrieks_, He is coming! He is coming! He is coming!_

A shape, white as a ghost, darts out from the settling debris and pounces. But not on her. The monstrous creature drops to all fours beside her hexed death eater. Without sparing a thought for the manr's face or his still-beating heart, the pale monster reaches out two enormous hands, places one on either side of the ugly face, and shakes the death eater the way Crookshanks might shake a mouse— swiftly from side to side. She can hear the death eater's neck snap as he waves back and forth like a doll, like a cat toy, and she knows that he is dead. The creature turns its face to her, and she meets its gray eyes. Draco Malfoy, covered head to toe in bits of molding, siding and wood, splinters dotting his face and arms, a streak of bright red blood smeared across his mouth like a ridiculous painted clown-smile. She is no less afraid.

He reaches for her, but she recoils faster, and aims her wand at him.

"Granger," he says, and his mouth sounds full and wet. "Granger, don't point that at me. Can you disapparate?"

She hesitates in backing away to put up a shield charm as a streak of orange light explodes beside Malfoy. "Pavarti," she mumbles. He doesn't look at all perturbed by this situation. In fact, he takes advantage of her stillness to come right up beside her, gripping her left hand hard in his right one.

"Disapparate, Granger," he says, and he means it. She can tell. "More will come soon and they will find us."

"Stupefy!" she shouts out at the nearest death eater to them.

He snarls at this, and she isn't sure if he's mad that she's still shooting stunners or mad that she's ignoring him. "Don't waste time. Leave them for me. I will even look for Patil." His teeth are red.

Something in the way he says it makes her angry. He says it like he doesn't expect to return; like he's going to die here. All at once, she realizes that this must be his intention exactly. He is here without his group. He is stained red and white. He has no wand. He has nothing, and so he intends to _be_ nothing. Hermione's heart breaks for this broken boy, resigned to death even after all this time.

She shakes her head. The motion hurts her injured ear, but she doesn't care. "No." His hand is still clutching hers. She closes her fingers around his. "I won't leave without you." She looks up into his eyes. They are gray and rust and swallowed by huge pupils.

He doesn't seem surprised by her words; doesn't seem to register at all that she's said anything, but then his gaze slides down to her fingers wrapped around his, and he lets out a little sigh like he's resigned to something. "You have a talent for swooping in to save the day when you are least wanted. Did you know that?"

She isn't sure how to respond to this. It sounds like she should be offended, but she isn't. Hermione Granger saves people. It's what she does and she is proud of it. In this world, there are good people and there are bad people and Hermione is, definitively, a good person. Good people save the day and win the war.

A portion of the wall beside them explodes. Hermione ducks away from the fresh rain of molding. Malfoy hardly moves.

"If you are so determined to save me," he says, casually, in a slow drawl that seems entirely out of place in his red mouth. "Then what are you going to do about them?" His eyes indicate the hole in the wall and the death eaters beyond it.

And all at once she knows what to do.

She thinks about Luna, and immediately an ache starts in her chest. _It's not fair,_ she tells herself, and thinks about Susan. Dean, bleeding out just before she learns the potion that could save him. Fred, swallowed under a preventable curse. The ache swells and howls and _hurts._ The hurt makes her angry. The death eaters beyond the hole in the wall could be anyone. They could be no one. They don't have faces.

_Ok, _she think, like a sigh, like giving up on a losing battle. There's no reason to hold back, not on the account of a group of faceless murderers. Let the devil take the lot of them. She is fiercely aware that she has been holding the end of a leash so tightly with her heart that it aches to remember. She lets go of the leash. _Go ahead._

A shadow falls over the room, flowing inward from the corners, coalescing in a pool on the floor. In her bad ear, she can hear a deep rumbling laugh like a shriek, like a war cry, like the flapping of very large wings.

What remains of the wall bows outward, the beams of wood groaning as if under a massive weight, and then they break. There are screams from the other side of the hole.

Hermione whips her head around to watch, curiosity and something uglier compelling her to see what the monster will do, but there is a cold hand clamped across her eyes and a voice beside her right ear, "Don't watch," Malfoy whispers, and his breath is warm and stinks like rust. "It doesn't want to be seen."

There is a sound like a bucket of thick soup being dumped on a floor, ripping wet cloth, and then again and again. Tipping buckets over. Spilling soup. Tearing fabric. The screaming stops. Hermione hears a sound like a wet rag hitting the far wall, and the smell of raw meat is overpowering. It sticks to the inside of her mouth, crawls up her nose, and sits in her brain. She sways a bit despite herself, but Malfoy's hands— over her eyes and clutching hers— keep her steady. She leans forward against his hands. She trusts that he will hold her up. He does not waver.

"We should leave now," he says and she is close enough to him that she can feel the rumble of his chest. "Can you walk?"

She nods, and he removes his hands from over her eyes. He is looking behind her. "You probably shouldn't turn around."

For the first time in memory, Hermione agrees with what Malfoy suggests. Instead, she really looks at the kitchen around them for the first time. What she sees makes her want to laugh.

There is a window above the sink opposite their wall and beside it, a door. She was this close to the exit the whole time and never even noticed. And then she does laugh.

Malfoy gives her a strange look and so she points to the door with her free hand. He turns around for the first time, taking in their surroundings. Then he looks back at her. "You're mad," he says, clearly still confused about why she is laughing.

At this, she just laughs harder and pushes past Malfoy towards the door, tugging him behind her.

They push through the door, and take off running for the copse of woods where they can disparate. Looking back on this, Hermione will remember the full moon and the white snow and their shadows, all three of them, black against the landscape.

When they reach the edge of the trees, they slow to a walk.

"It's going to be side-along," she warns, thinking it only fair to let him know before she does it. "And we're going somewhere before we go back." His eyes widen just as she begins to turn on the spot.

* * *

She and Malfoy appear with a pop between two trees and Malfoy drops her wrist as though it had burned him.

"Why are we here, Granger?" he demands, backing away from her and scanning the area around them. Moonlight is streaking through the trees around them, and he is dappled silver and gray in the light, the blood on his face black as pitch. His eyes are narrowed at her in suspicion, but the crazed look is gone from his gaze, and so she counts this as a victory, although if asked, she wouldn't be able to say when she started to really care.

"Forest of Dean," she pants back. "I used to go camping here when I was a child."

"Fascinating," he quirks an eyebrow at her. "But I didn't ask you _where_ we were. I asked you _why we are here_. Surely you aren't mad enough to think I have suddenly started caring about your dear childhood?"

She ignores the jab and asks, "Why do you try so hard?"

He just stares at her, "Forgive me, Granger, but how hard did you hit your head?"

She glares back at him, "Something happened to you. I want to know what it is." She straightens her back and tilts her chin up. She means the death eaters. She means that she has known him long enough and seen him fight often enough that she cannot reconcile who he is now with who he was in school.

"War," he answers simply.

"No," the answer comes quickly to her, and she is sure of herself. "That's not all it is. You're dangerous, Malfoy, and I want to know what the difference between us and them is. Why will you," _rip out their throats with your teeth, shake them like a cat, kill them like they are nothing when I know you know them by name,_ "Fight against them and not us. What happened?"

He barks out a laugh. "Why should I answer you?" he sneers. "I owe you my freedom, not answers to all of your petty, invasive questions."

She didn't anticipate it would be so hard to get an answer out of him. This shouldn't have been like pulling teeth.

"And a better question, why bring me here for something as petty as this? Are you _asking_ me to kill you and take your wand? Is that what you want?"

Without thinking, she points her wand at his legs, and then Malfoy is on his knees, his hands buried in dead leaves. She doesn't even have to say anything. "Clever, Mudblood," he chuckles and the sound sends a shiver up her spine. It suddenly feels very stupid to be out here alone with him. "But you won't always consider that first."

She levels her wand at his face. "Answer my question, Malfoy," and her voice doesn't waver, although her aim does. She presses her thumb hard into the side of her wand, willing Malfoy not to notice the tremor. "I don't know how or why you got separated from your group. I don't know why you're on our side at all. I want to know-"

"Yes, yes," he actually has the audacity to roll his eyes. "You want to know everything. But I cannot guarantee anything for you, Granger. You have no way to make me talk and should you kill me — which, let's face it, you don't have the stomach to do — then more questions will be asked about your loyalty than mine. We both know that you can never let that happen and you are not dumb enough to think that you can force an answer out of me."

She really shouldn't have brought him here. She doesn't know what she was thinking— no, she does, but she chooses not to think about that now, just in case he can read her thoughts. Which in itself is a crazy thing to think.

"Please, Malfoy," she tries instead, "I just want to know why you are so good at killing without a wand. You were hardly the heartiest wizard at Hogwarts. You have to admit it's a bit strange." She hopes he takes it as an insult; it was supposed to be one.

"What do you want? Proof that I am me? A litany of my life in excruciating detail printed in one of your oversized books so you can peruse my history at your leisure? I hate to be the first to tell you this, Granger, but people are not literature. You can't just pin down the turning point in someone's life or the exact moment they were no longer recognizable as themselves. That's not how it works out here." He says this slowly, like explaining something simple to a child or imbecile.

She bucks against the tone, "I want to know what you did for You Know Who before you came to us, why he wants you dead and I want to know _why_ he didn't kill you when he had the chance."

A smile ghosts across his face, which pulls the bloody mask around his mouth in grotesque shapes, "That is the question, isn't it? But, tell me, Granger, what's in this for me, hm? What will I get in return for this baring of my soul?"

"I hardly think of it as a baring of your soul," she mutters. "Those are pretty straightforward questions, all things-"

"But the answers are ones only I know, and knowledge is never free." He is looking at her with a calculation that she doesn't like.

"Fine. What do you want?"

"Information of my own. A question for a question, then."

"Fine," she repeats. "What do you want to know?"

"Who, precisely, have you told about the vow?" He nods down at his wrist, still hidden among the leaves.

He can't be comfortable, crouched over the dirt like that, and so she lets him up. As the jinx fades, he stands and she doesn't miss the way he shakes his knees as though the muscles were stiff.

She gives him a long, serious look, "Why do you want to know?"

"I want to know how many people know that your death will set me free." He gives her an even look. This information jolts her slightly, and she blinks rapidly at him. "Oh, don't give me that doe-y look. You had to have guessed that Dawlish didn't tell you everything. He never specified a third person who could give me orders, and I doubt you'll do so, either." Malfoy actually lets out a harsh laugh, "Please. The reason he didn't give the vow to one of his aurors was because they're more valuable alive than you are. Think about it — what good are you? Can't even shoot to kill and only useful when someone has a magical puzzle to figure out. Why would they possibly entrust this to someone like you?"

She doesn't tell him to shut up, even though his words sting in their truth. She has never considered any of this and a cold, calculating part of her is glad that _something_ is finally being made clear to her.

He continues speaking, and takes a step toward her. "The more who know, the better the chance that someone will make an attempt on your life, allowing me a chance for freedom. I can't kill you, of course," his eyes flick to the side and she is unsure how to interpret this statement, "but any of them," he grins wickedly and he is the monster at war again, "it would be easy."

_Who_, she wants to know, _would make an attempt on my life to set Malfoy free?_ The answer, though, is obvious: the mole. Whoever is spying on them. This is also why he assumes she won't tell anyone else about the vow, because she cannot risk the wrong person finding out. She has been living in a den of serpents without even realizing it. But does Malfoy know who it is? Are they working together? The very idea chills her bones. She wants to ask why it would be easy and, as if sensing her budding question he says, "I just answered one of yours. Now answer mine."

"Huh?" She starts, blinking rapidly. And then, "Oh." He's answered her question, but not the one she thought she'd asked. He was telling her why he wanted to know. Clever. But then she is scrambling to form a response, since he is obviously waiting for one, watching her like an insect in a jar, pinned under his cold eyes. It takes her a second to realize that he still wants to know how many people she's told about this. "Three," she says readily.

He narrows his eyes, "Potter and the Weasel are easy enough to guess, but who is the third?"

"I answered one question of yours. Now you answer mine. What did you do for You Know Who before… everything happened?"

He gives her a sour look, but plays along. "Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?"

"_Who watches the watchmen?_" she glares at him. "That isn't an-"

"I hunted them. The deserters. The ones who fled His ranks or turned from the cause. I hunted them down, and I made them pay. I did. I was the watcher. I watched the watchmen. And their shrieks ring soft and sweet in my dreams to this day." His eyes are glassy again, and she knows that she is losing him to memory.

She swallows, but her mouth is dry. "Fine," if she keeps talking, maybe he will stay focused long enough to give her what she needs to know. "Do you have another question for me?"

His eyes snap back to her, "No lies, Granger. No lies between us. There is bad blood. There is hatred, but there will be no lies. I detest lies, and I will know if you do not tell me the truth."

"Thanks for the warning, Sherlock," she can't help but roll her eyes at the not-so-subtle threat.

His eyes narrow and he looks offended. "What is a 'sherlo-"

"It's a muggle reference," she waves away impatiently. "Not an insult. Just get to the point. They're going to suspect something if we take much longer."

"The names of the three you told. All three."

Her heart sinks but she hides her disappointment. She was hoping he would only ask the name of the third person she told, assuming wrongly that Harry and Ron were the first two. "Lupin, Ginny, and Mallory Bullstrode," she sighs through her nose. The other information she wants had best be worth this.

He doesn't answer, and so she continues. "What happened that made you, er, fall out of his favor. Your job sounds important enough."

He stares long and hard at her, as if waiting for her to change her mind, but she will not. This is important. This is how she will piece together where he fits into this mess. And his reluctance to answer only makes her that much hungrier for the information. "Hurry up. We don't have long," she reminds again.

"Susan Amelia Bones and Luna Penelope Ariadne Lovegood." Malfoy replies as calmly as if he is stating that the sky is blue.

She knows, then, that Susan had told the truth before she died— that Malfoy had attempted to help them escape, and at great personal risk. He is still a coward in her mind, even if he is a crazy one, so next she asks, "Why?"

"What, Granger, is the thing that separates you from me?"

He is going to make her work for her answer, then. She can think of many things to say to that, but she knows, immediately, which thing he is talking about, and the answer makes her feel naked and ashamed before the words are even out of her mouth, "Blood status."

He nods, "Yes. That is correct. And what, then, is the difference between The Dark Lord and me?"

_Ah._ Now she knows where this is going and is just waiting for confirmation. "Blood status," she says again. "He's a half-blood, which you think isn't the same as you at all." _Like different species_, she mentally adds, and she is angrier than she really has the right to be at this moment and she doesn't want to look too closely at why. She reminds herself that she has all the power in this situation and his biased, prejudiced opinion of her doesn't matter at all, no matter what her suddenly ash-filled stomach seems to be trying to indicate. She has the wand. She is the witch.

He nods again, like she just got a question right on a test. "Cleverest witch. What, then, is the difference between Susan Amelia Bones, Luna Penelope Ariadne Lovegood, and me?"

She pauses now. She doesn't know their blood status, but she can hazard a guess. Before she has to answer, though, he speaks.

"Nothing. Their blood is as pure as mine is. Now, Granger, in a good, pureblood society, why should a mere half-blood determine which pure blooded witches and wizards I should kill? Why does a half-blood dictate that pure blooded witches of good stock and standing should be tortured, raped, and imprisoned for the simple crime of not fleeing faster? Why should I end the lives of witches and wizards of pure blood and good standing in society on the orders of a half-bred mongrel with no parentage at all save for some dubious claim at an ancient and fanciful lineage? And so I let them go, and I killed the half-blood-worshipping curs who tried to stop me. And I enjoyed it." His grin widens at these words. "I enjoyed killing those who stood in my way. This is why the Dark Lord does not hold me in his good graces." He licks his lips and she wonders who or what he is now, for he is at once unrecognizable as the boy she hated in school, although she sees no reason to prefer this new incarnation of the pale bastard.

She cannot think of any way to answer this speech and so she clears her throat and says, "Alright. What's your next question?"

The smile fades from his face as he returns to the present yet again. "No questions, mudblood. Nothing more to ask."

This means that the conversation is done. She's wasted all of the questions he would answer, but she didn't regret it. She's starting to make sense of this upside-down world. Without another word, Hermione wraps her fingers around his wrist and apparates them both to Andromeda's back yard.

She lets go of Malfoy's wrist at once, and then Ginny, Mallory, Lavender, Justin, and Ernie are all around her, wrapping her in hugs and all talking at once. Lavender is crying, Ginny is swearing like Ron. Hermione watches over Justin's left shoulder as Malfoy slinks through the doorway and into the kitchen.

* * *

An hour later, Andromeda's kitchen is packed with aurors and order members. Some sport wounds of bandages and torn clothing, some look tired and some, chillingly, smile.

All-in-all, they lost four fighters and three more were injured. The only one on either list that Hermione knows is Pavarti Patil, and there won't even be a body to send home to her family. Zabini was rescued, though— early on in the mission and not by her group. The Zabini that she identified as a fake is a John Doe. No one knows his name, where he is from, or what his allegiance to Voldemort might be. He is staying in Azkaban. The ministry's legilimens couldn't get anything out of him, nor could the veritaserum. His memory is completely blank. All he knows is that he was supposed to remember to drink something every hour and go when he was taken. He doesn't even know his own name.

The team responsible for finding the real Zabini are rewarded with the promised bottle of Ogden's, and they pass it around and everyone gets hammered making toasts and taking shots. Like a team.

"To Samuel Smith!"

"To Pavarti!"

"To war!"

"To the snake-faced son of a bitch!"

"To Harry Potter!"

"Yes — to the Boy Who Lived!"


End file.
